A few short months after victoriously gaining a license, I lost it. I have every other previous version of it, but the newest one just vanished!
“To your credit,” said BT peeking into my room midway-through-ransack, “I thought, ‘where would she keep something like this besides her wallet?’ and I couldn’t think of anything. You’ve definitely done your due diligence.” We searched for another half hour. It is nowhere to be found.
But the thorough overturning of all storage spaces mine caused me to think a few thoughts.
There’s like a category of my brain that is like “that is it’s place” and it goes back in that place, and I’m just so tickled and happy that I’ve got a place for it. Slingshot goes on bed, next to books. Receipts with story ideas go in the paper stack below the books. The ages-old origami game goes in the hidden compartment in my backpack.
And the only thing that I can think of as to why that gives me so much satisfaction is the pretty much catch-all excuse (which I’m wary of using, but will if I need to pinch hit a reason/intro to my life to someone) that I’ve moved a lot.
So saying, “This goes, here and that goes there” is sorta opposite.
Hand in hand is my sad, sad, sad made up bed. At least I’ve been told it was sad. Even Mom said my oh-so-precious quilt was on it’s last legs. It’s yellowed with age, the quilted squares are losing their middle and exposing the stuffing below. There’s even an edge section that’s torn away from the rest of the blanket that sometimes my arm goes through gets caught.
I have had this quilt for as long as I can remember, and it’s just as comfy as it’s always been. It keeps me warm, or cool, and it’s just perfect. But apparently it looks terrible now.
And I have a “pillow” that has had such a life, that it by all rights should be retired. It traveled internationally, then half way across the country, got chewed on by Rimfire as a pup, causing the outer case to shred. Now it has no outer case and I contain the matted, permanently fused, hardened, foam stuffing in a sham.
Mom and BT and me just shake our heads when we see it. But it still serves it’s purpose. It gives just a little bit more of height than one pillow, which is all I need.
But by all intents it could definitely just be retired.
Why don’t I? Why don’t I just say, “No I won’t use you any more?” Why am I so glad I have places and things and put them back where they came from? It’s like I need some sort of continuity in my life, and I wonder how much that is true for humans.
I bet my friend is tired of me telling her, but I still haven’t yet reconciled my life with other people’s so it still comes up. My “family” contains a grand total of three people. I have virtually no past, and no future. I’ve lived nowhere long, and have no roots. Is this weird? Is this normal? Is my psyche different than others and if so in what way? I would love to know this. It would be so cool to know.