Driving home from some friends' house last night, I began a certain familiar sort-of twitching behavior. Leaning over in my seat until the seatbelt strangled me, angling my head and hands every which way (but loose), until Beve asked, "What is your problem?" "I think I left my phone at their house." We were about a block away from our driveway at that point, but just then Beve's phone rang. Sure enough, it was our friend, with the confirmation that my phone had been left on their coffee table. He said he'd bring it by this morning.
I'm not by nature a forgetful person. At least I didn't used to be. But in my fifties, something seems to have dislodged from my brain. There are moments when I worry that it's the early onset of Alzheimers, and given my life, it's not surprising that I'd immediately go there. But usually it's just one or two items I forget, and forget them with great alacrity. Like my cell-phone. I leave that thing all over the house, and can't be bothered to pay attention to where it last landed. I really think it's that I'm just not wedded to the thing. Don't think in terms of instant communication with my 'peeps' every second of every day. Come to think of it, I don't even have 'peeps'. I do have kids, though, kids who whose favorite mode of communication is texting. Thankfully, they've learned--at least with me--that all those shorthand texts often used (the ones our girl V used expertly) will not do with me. Will absolutely not do at all. But if I want to talk to my kids, at least the ones who don't live in our house, I need to have my phone in the ready position. So I spend more time than I care to admit looking for where I left the blasted thing this time.
The end of my latest phone kafafel happened this morning when our friend stopped by at some unlikely hour to return it. Beve was already up and at school (it is summer vacation..Beve, Beve? Can you hear me?), but E and I were both still in bed when the dogs thankfully announced our friend's arrival. Unfortunately, what they didn't announce--at least I didn't get the translation--was that M had let himself in the front door and was walking down the hall toward our bedroom (door opened by the dogs), before I really understood what was going on. I leapt out of bed, which probably wasn't my best choice, and hurriedly grabbed some clothes to cover what I sleep in. Yes, that's right folks, I hate pjs. Hate them. Always have, always will. My mom used to tell of my removing my nighties even in a crib because I didn't like how they felt against me when I slept. Our friend, M, was about two steps of being startled out of his skin, and I was that close to being so embarrassed I'm pretty sure we'd have to sever the relationship.
But crisis avoided. At least I think so, though he was in the kitchen when I got out there, talking about this morning's football game, which, obviously, I hadn't seen. However, his asking about it made me laugh because Beve and I always say, "How 'bout those Mariners?" whenever we're in a conversation with people that grows awkward.
But I got my phone back. But hmmm, I can't think of where I've left it now.
And that football game? I'm really sorry I missed it. So I'm watching the highlights right now!