Why is it when I search for something - that something, that's being looked for - simply cannot be found? It is a disappearing act that frustrates me to no end.
This memory lapse on my part (I’m assuming it’s a lapse on my part as the thing in question has no legs or any other means in which to wander off and subsequently hide), is an irksome, all too often occurrence. It is especially bothersome, when the person searching (me), has a Type A personality.
During these moments of intense search and rescue, my relaxed Libra personality casually steps aside; leaving my more detail oriented, irritatingly particular Virgo personality to march to the front of the crowd and take control of the situation. This control is usually done in the form of turning the entire house - upside down. A great deal of muttering and sputtering takes place during these moments wherein no stone is left unturned until said object is found and has been returned to safety.
As if by the use of sheer mental force I sit and attempt to pry the last clouded memory of the item from the back of my mind, and in doing so hopefully triggering an obscure nugget of information that will reveal the objects whereabouts. This use of mental force has at times - worked well. At other times it has only fueled my obsessive compulsive need to finally lay hold of the object. This obsessive determination has at times, prompted me to look in places that make no sense whatsoever. I will embarrassingly admit to looking in the laundry room for a tax return. Like a hungry squirrel in search of the last nut known on the planet, I dart from room to room.
All the while, I do this with a certain bit of sarcastic dialogue, aimed solely at myself. Sardonic utterances spurred by the fact that my eyes were the last eyes to have viewed the document or object, so therefore, it only makes sense that my eyes be the ones that know where in blue blazes the object is hiding.
What I find especially peculiar is when I fail to locate something in a magazine. I only fail to locate it, when wanting to point out the article to a friend. I thumb through the magazine while commenting on the article, glancing up periodically to ensure my friend’s attention is still focused on the expectant conversation piece. As I thumb through again, I begin to laugh at how difficult it is to find something when one wants to find it. I glance up again, noticing their attention is waning. At this point mine is too. It is a phenomenon I have no way of explaining.
Currently, I am in search of a book. This book, which should be nestled among my other books, is no longer there. Did I lend it out to my brother – maybe? Did I have it in hand at one point and inadvertently leave it in another room of the house – maybe that too. Or did the little devil jump off the shelf while I was sleeping and high tail it out the door? Either way the blasted thing isn’t there. Once I do find it, I need to locate a certain passage contained within its pages. It’s a beautiful passage, and I wanted to blog about it this morning. I do not want to rely upon my memory of the passage; instead I want to quote it exactly as it appears. That won’t be happening this morning as the book seems to have gone rogue, taking with it the passage I wanted to read. And the sadistic thing is, if I had woke this morning wanting to thumb through any other book on the shelf, this Steinbeck novel would be sitting in my way. I have to wonder if the hands of fate get idle, and when they do, they move things around – making a Where’s Waldo picture out of my life.
Sane
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