It seems to be one of those little rules of this wonderful thing called life, that a day (or a week, or a month) of grand epiphanies and solemn thought be followed by such moments that will leave you shaking your head ruefully for aeons.
Last night I misplaced my phone.
This happens on a fairly regular basis, because I have four bags I cart around depending on the situation, with the phone actually in the current bag for preference. And when I'm at home, a whole new set of locations enters the equation - the tops of the television, the computer monitor and the washing machine, any place in any of the three bookshelves, the sinks in the bathrooms, any of our four beds, my cupboard, my mother's cupboard, my father's cupboard, the balcony, and anywhere on the floor I might have dropped it.
The usual practice when I've misplaced my phone is to call it. That sets off the loud and insistent ringing and every member of the family currently in the house is roped into the rescue efforts. The average is two calls before it is found, and I was, until recently, justifiably proud that we'd got the system down to such a fine art.
Last night was different. My phone had been on low battery for a few hours before it went AWOL; and when I called it, instead of the reassuring sound of the ring tone I'd been saddled with by Hutch (completely against my will), I heard instead a poorly recorded automated message telling me the phone I was calling had been switched off. Panic ensued in short order.
I systematically turned the entire house upside down, all the while whimpering "my phone" in a pathetic little voice, aware that there were far more important matters in the world needing attention. After about an hour of concerted effort, we'd found numerous items previously given up for lost (isn't that always the case?) including my mother's spectacles, assorted stationery, and a coat hanger (don't ask). We went through every room in the house, some of them twice, but to no avail.
I went to bed desolate and disconsolate and phoneless.
This morning, my mother found my phone. In the freezer.
The joy of life.
Last night I misplaced my phone.
This happens on a fairly regular basis, because I have four bags I cart around depending on the situation, with the phone actually in the current bag for preference. And when I'm at home, a whole new set of locations enters the equation - the tops of the television, the computer monitor and the washing machine, any place in any of the three bookshelves, the sinks in the bathrooms, any of our four beds, my cupboard, my mother's cupboard, my father's cupboard, the balcony, and anywhere on the floor I might have dropped it.
The usual practice when I've misplaced my phone is to call it. That sets off the loud and insistent ringing and every member of the family currently in the house is roped into the rescue efforts. The average is two calls before it is found, and I was, until recently, justifiably proud that we'd got the system down to such a fine art.
Last night was different. My phone had been on low battery for a few hours before it went AWOL; and when I called it, instead of the reassuring sound of the ring tone I'd been saddled with by Hutch (completely against my will), I heard instead a poorly recorded automated message telling me the phone I was calling had been switched off. Panic ensued in short order.
I systematically turned the entire house upside down, all the while whimpering "my phone" in a pathetic little voice, aware that there were far more important matters in the world needing attention. After about an hour of concerted effort, we'd found numerous items previously given up for lost (isn't that always the case?) including my mother's spectacles, assorted stationery, and a coat hanger (don't ask). We went through every room in the house, some of them twice, but to no avail.
I went to bed desolate and disconsolate and phoneless.
This morning, my mother found my phone. In the freezer.
The joy of life.
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