It was my favorite shade of blue, just the right size with a nice, roomy handle. In short, it was the perfect coffee cup, and despite the fact that I have a couple of very nice blue mugs already, I happily bought it. I brought it home and put it in the dishwasher and - poof! I never saw it again.
I've hunted high, low and in between. Gone.
I'm trying to avoid accusing my husband, since whenever I do invariably the item turns up in a day or two and I have to apologize. When I casually mentioned it, he wasn't fooled for a moment. He even had the gall to point out the other blue mugs crowding our shelves. Humph.
So while I wander the house, peering in the dozens of nooks and crannies where it might be hiding, I once again am meditating on the mystery of how the stuff in our lives behaves as if it has a mind of its own.
Have you ever thought about how much stuff we're surrounded with? If you really stop to think about it, it's a little overwhelming. Big stuff like sofas, beds and washing machines. Little stuff like paper clips, earrings, and pen tops. Useful items, like staplers and can openers. Important stuff, like bills and tax returns.
And let's not forget the family pictures and heirlooms, weighted with history and memory, and the whimsical things you keep just because they make you smile, and the things you have to hold on to that are just plain annoying, like the ugly picture on the wall that you can't get rid of because it will hurt your mom's feelings.
Then there's the invisible stuff on your electronics, like the glut of emails you keep meaning to delete or the hundreds of out of focus photos, or the old, old files piling up in the back rooms of your laptop, or the spam lapping at the edges of your security walls. It gives me goosebumps just thinking about that one!
But what I find odd is how our stuff seems to take on a life of its own, somehow. It multiplies and piles up around us, cluttering our counters and overflowing from our closets. It disappears - like when that important letter vanishes into thin air, or one of your favorite earrings mischievously plays hide and seek, or decides to migrate to a more amenable climate, like under the sofa.
I finished a perfectly nice puzzle the other day - brand new, mind you - only to find one piece missing. Did it fall into a crack in the universe, like a Dr. Who episode, vanishing into another dimension?
And how about those things that seem to proliferate, like paper clips and rubber bands and junk mail? I have a sneaking suspicion the moment my back is turned they subdivide like cells under a microscope. I clean a drawer and come back an hour later to find it filled to the brim with old keys and nail files and a screwdriver or two. It's creepy, to say the least.
Then there are the things that seem to move around when you're not looking. Take, for example, the silverware drawer. I organize the utensils neatly, only to find them heaped up in a pile or saucily mixed in various compartments the next day. The simpler explanation is that the other person in my house has a different style of emptying the dishwasher - I refrain from naming names - but I can't help wondering if they hop into the neighboring bins late at night to gossip and sing bawdy songs and hold wild silverware parties.
And shoes! Anything designed to come in pairs ought to have a good bonded relationship. You know, stick by each other. I have a few pairs of shoes that really seem to be having marital problems. Seems like every time my feet go looking, one or the other will be missing – to be found hiding under the nearest chair, or across the room under the coffee table.
Sorry - I'm starting to rant here.
Some stuff is pretty reliable, I admit. I can count on my couch, pretty much. It may not be the most intelligent item in my house, but I can be pretty sure it will stay where I put it and not wander off to the basement to have a chat with the washing machine. The bed, too, and for the most part the fridge – loyal, hardworking, reliable. They break down, of course, but at least you know where to find them.
You may not have this problem. Maybe you're one of those Absolutely Organized People who know where everything is, like those annoying before and after ads on Facebook ("Your House Could Look Like This!"). But for most of us regular people, life seems to wash in a daily tide of letters, emails, and junk, and if we don't constantly sort through it and shovel away the useless, in time it can bury us.
I guess I need to stop whining. I may never (sniff) find that nice mug at all, but the fact that I bought that cup meant that I had a little extra money, as well as a home to go to with coffee, electricity and a kitchen. I'm pretty lucky, all in all.
And maybe in the afterlife, when I get to whatever place awaits, there will be a room with a neatly lettered sign reading Lost and Found, and there, on the shelf, it will be waiting.
Sometimes, though, I wish I lived thousands of years ago when people didn't have so much stuff. No one mailed you coupons or sent you urgent emails. People lived in caves. They had a stone axe or two. A rock for pounding seeds. A bone needle, maybe, for sewing leather.
But maybe things have always been like this. Just now, as I wander disconsolately from room to room, looking for The Lost Cup, I can picture that dark cave, and some woman in a leather dress. She looks frustrated, and across the canyon of time and progress we look at each other and shake our heads.
I'll bet she's looking for her needle.
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