Nothing bugs me more than misplacing my things and
lately, I’ve been losing a lot. Last week, it was a credit card and this week,
a tiny plastic clip that holds my measuring spoons neatly in place. The credit card has been easily replaced and the
plastic spoon clip is practically worthless.
But I GRIEVE when I lose things. The smaller and more insignificant the missing item, the more obsessive I get about restoring order to my world. Ever since I was a child and lost
my favorite stuffed lambie Zipper, I've never been good at letting go. I remember
crying for days until my Dad suggested that I pray to St. Anthony whose job it
is to keep track of everyone’s stuff. So I did—and magically, the next day, I
discovered Zipper lying on a pile of junk in the garage. I’ve been a believer ever since even when I
learned in later years that St. Anthony doesn't work for free and will move you higher up his list if you slip
him a twenty.
But I figure St Anthony can’t be bothered with
such a trivial matter as a plastic spoon clip, so I’ve wasted
hours and hours frantically pawing through drawers and cupboards trying to find
it.
Fortunately, Frank puts up with my eccentricities and cheerfully moves heavy
furniture, while I get down on my hands and knees with the flashlight (an endeavor which is
about as fruitful as a snipe hunt). Patient as he is, he doesn’t
get why I can’t just let it go, “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll buy you another
one.” But he is totally missing the
point—as with any form of grief, I'm more upset about losing control over my orderly
environment than losing the thing itself.
For me, accepting the loss of a mislaid item is a
process not entirely unlike Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ well known five stages of
grief: denial, anger, bargaining,
depression and acceptance.
So here’s Angie’s version:
Stage 1-Denial-“I left it right here! It can’t have grown legs and walked off—it’s
gotta be somewhere!”
Stage 2-Anger/ Blame- “Okay, who the hell took it?” (this is
directed at anyone unlucky enough to be within hollering distance, including
the cats)
Stage 3-Bargaining—“If I ever find the stupid thing,
I’ll be more careful and I’ll never lose it again!
Stage 4-Depression—“God, I’m getting old and
senile—won’t be long before independent living is a fuzzy memory.”
Stage 5-Acceptance—Well, let’s just say I’m not there
yet. I’m still looking for the jade
stone that fell out of the ring Frank gave me on our first Christmas together. And today I found myself combing through moldy coffee grounds
in the compost bin hoping that the plastic spoon clip somehow landed there.
Okay, so maybe I’m a tiny bit obsessive about
maintaining control over my universe and I get somewhat overly attached to
material things. I’m no Dali Lama. But
he’d be the first to tell me to laugh and cut myself some slack.
