My Missed Connection.

Missing: 2 shoes, 1 credit card, keys, keys, 6 shirts, 1 book, 1 car, keys, 2 apples, 1 orange, 19.5 hours

“Brian, have you seen my _______?”

“No.  Where did you have it last?”

“Obviously if I knew that I wouldn’t be asking you.”

“Where’d you put it? “

“Again, think about why I’m asking.”

“…did you hide it?  Maybe?  To be mean?  Or because you thought it would be funny to watch me look?”

(No response, probably because: a. This is our 1837^th time having this conversation, b. the idea is preposterous,      c. It’s a blatant and offensive accusation, d. all of the above.)

I know I put it somewhere conspicuous.  I remember thinking about it and choosing a certain place.  It was somewhere special, somewhere that I wouldn’t lose it this time.  But… what was this “special” place?  Why would I choose it?  It was probably to make things more efficient.  This is not more efficient. 

According to Wikipedia (it must be true), I have OCD.  Perhaps it’s my Asian heritage.  Maybe it’s some sort of subconscious obsession stemming from a very complicated childhood deficiency I’m not aware of.  The result: I don’t just want, I need to be efficient.  Airport security?  My 3.1 oz. containers are in their one quart ziploc, I’m wearing slip-ons, and my laptop is out of bag and in hand.  I could probably find more supporting evidence of my OCD online, if I didn’t view it to be an ineffective use of time.

I frequently identify processes that should be better and immediately begin a course of action to improve them.  I drop everything, fix the process, make it exponentially faster, then make it different enough from my last attempt (that involved a lost item) that there is almost no possibility of failure this go around.  Hence, my missing items. 

Plagued with a feeling of defeat – of almost being on the brink of brilliance – I become utterly obsessed with the search.  Hours go by.  Drawers are overturned.  The usual and unusual places are checked and rechecked.  And checked again, just in case.  Nothing. 

Unlike a 90’s sitcom, my story does not end with a happy laugh, with me stumbling across said item sitting on top of the table, in my pocket, or some other charming semi-obvious place.  That sort of kind irony doesn’t exist for me or (hopefully) anyone.  And so the hunt endures.

Found: under the bed, in a book, ignition, key rack, no, no, parking garage, husband, no, no, never