I’ve been losing my mind lately (listens to the peanut gallery saying “Losing? It has been lost for ages”). I’m going to be twenty-six for the ninth time pretty soon and I swear old age is setting in. I’m constantly forgetting things…kind of.
The other day the rain heavily poured down as we lunged out of the cozy dry car. My husband grabbed Mr. Grumpybutt, our nine-month-old, and 3ft, our five-year-old, and raced toward the double doors leading to the rainy day haven that is the mall. I, as the resident pack mule (hee haw), grabbed all the paraphernalia that comes with lugging an infant around -- you know, everything you own plus the kitchen sink -- and took off after them.
After maneuvering through the screaming kids in the play area, one of which was my own, I finally made it to the corner booth my husband had secured. Apparently we weren’t the only parents that thought the mall play area was a perfect place to take the kids on a rainy afternoon. I instantly lost what felt like fifty pounds when I dumped the myriad of bags in a pile that I had hanging from all over me. Then I shucked off my wet sweater and laid it out over the mountain I’d created in hopes that it’d dry some before we left. I got comfortable and watched 3ft run around like a hellion and pretended he wasn’t mine.
About an hour in, 3ft got thirsty and asked for some water. I’d forgotten our water bottle which is usually what happens so that’s not why I think I’m getting senile. No big deal, I thought, I’ll just buy him one.
I reached for my purse and grabbed air. I muttered curses under my breath and tried to remember when I’d had it last while I looked frantically around for it. My husband asked me what’s wrong and I told him. He started looking frantically and Grumpybutt, thinking it was a game, started shaking his head back and forth, looking too.
I hysterically thought, “What if I left it in the car?” I shimmied back into my wet sweater and raced for the car, hoping that someone didn’t notice it, break in, and steal it. It was raining even harder, naturally as I waded up to the car. No purse. No obvious signs of a break in either.
I slumped back toward the mall, looking more like a drowned rat instead of a pack mule, and tried to remember when I’d had it last -- and couldn’t. I ran different scenarios of how to tell my husband my purse was gone to lessen the blow.
My favorite one:
Me: I just got a call from the doctor, turns out I have cancer! Only 3 months to live.
Husband: Oh my god, baby, that’s terrible.
Me: If it were true it’d make losing my purse not seem so bad, right?
Husband: I’m so relieved you’re healthy it doesn’t matter you lost major credit cards, social security cards, and your ID.
Yeah, I know, it’d never work so I prepared myself to suck it up and just tell him it was gone.
I got back inside, peeled off my sweater, and draped it over… yes. My purse. Never once had it occurred to me to look UNDER my sweater for my purse with ALL the other stuff I carted around.
So, is it senility if you only thought you forgot it or just the mother of all blonde moments?
Photo credit: dailymail.co.uk