Losing It

Pin It I recently took a personality test that indicated that I was, among other things, "easily distracted and prone to losing things."

There are so many things to say about my new label (isn't it pretty?), but right now I just want to talk about how I'm prone to losing things. Because boy howdy, am I ever prone.

PRONE. (That suddenly doesn't look like a real word to me. PRONE.)

My mom used to call me the absent minded professor, and I used to think that was sort of cute. But it's not. It's not cute at all. I'm so tired of losing my stuff.

I'm constantly losing things - my keys, my rollerblades, my daughter's lunchbox, my keys again, my shoes, my shoes again, my shoes again some more, my cell phone, the house cordless phone, my keys again, my purse, my debit card, my debit card, my debit card, my purse - all day long it goes on.

I'm so glad I have this valuable new tool, the personality type, to help me rationalize away all of my personal failings.

"Honey, you've got to start putting your keys in the same place every time you get home so that you can find them easily."

"I can't do that!"

"Why?"

"Because I'm an ENFP!"

"That prevents you from trying to keep track of your stuff?"

"I can't fight science!"

Before I knew about my ENFP illness, I was starting to think I had holes in my brain. Perhaps some flesh eating bacteria had crawled inside and eaten away the part of my brain that knew where I put my shoes. Because I sure couldn't find them.

So it's kind of a relief. (WHEW.)

Maybe I should give it a try though, the whole putting-stuff-back-in-a-place-where-it-would-logically-go-so-that-I-can-find-it-again THING. Yesterday I used my debit card to pay a bill online, set it down next to the computer when I was done and then walked around all day long looking for it, mystified. Where could it be? Where? Where where where where where? I couldn't imagine.

Tonight I looked for my rollerblades for twenty minutes. TWENTY MINUTES. And the house is perfectly clean right now. My closet is even organized. I just couldn't find them.

"They've vanished," I said to my husband. "I think they disapparated."

"Look in the garage," he said.

And there they were.

He always knows where my stuff is. I used to just call him at work all the time to ask him where my stuff was, but now, because of his job, I can't do that. (It's very inconsiderate of him to have a job like that, I think.)

Sometimes I think he's hiding my stuff just to mess with me, except I know it frustrates him too, the fact that I can never keep track of anything, ever. He knows the last five minutes before we go anywhere will involve what he calls the "walk and mutter." (Well. Walk and mutter and rant and rave.)

"I can't find my shoes. Where are my shoes? They were just here. They were just here. Who took my shoes? Who took them? DOG, did you take my shoes? Because I will kill you. I will kill you if you took my shoes. Who took them? Where are they? Where? Where? WHERE?! Oh look, right there in the closet."

Sometimes I even lose stuff inside my purse. That might not sound all that strange except that my purse is small, almost like a wallet, and there isn't much inside of it. And yet, within it's non-depths I can still repeatedly lose my debit card and driver's license. Even though they are, in fact, still right there in my purse. I'll be at the check-out and I'll go to pull out my debit card and - uh oh, it's not there. It's SIMPLY NOT THERE. I'll pull everything out, look at it and put it back in and it's STILL not there. I'm frantic. Where is it? Where could it be? Is it lost? Is it stolen? Is it disapparated? In another dimension?

And then, WHAM, suddenly it's there.

It happens a lot. (Sometimes I think it's some kind of brain magic. Just - not a good kind. But kind of tricky, all the same.)

Before Fathers Day, I hid one of my husband's presents. I remember thinking that I would remember where I put it. I remember very specifically saying to myself, oh, sure, you'll remember putting it there, no problem.

Um.

Yeah.

I still can't find it.

Sometimes I'll hide treats from the kids, because if they find the cookies they'll never make it into my daughter's lunchbox. Except then I forget where I hid them. It's kind of nice though because sometimes I'll be having a bad day and I'll open a cupboard door and - Oh, LOOK, OREOS FROM HEAVEN.

YUM, Oreos.

Oh. Whoops, I got distracted. (We INFPs tend to do that.) Sorry - I know that's irritating. I BLAME SCIENCE.