Every day this week and last weekend I spent an hour or two looking for a tablecloth that has fall leaves on it. I knew where it used to be but not where I'd transferred it. I took every item out of the upstairs hall closet and reorganized it three times. I searched in pots, in with linens, and in kitchen drawers, which caused me to reorganize them. My husband looked, though he can't find his shirt when it's on his body. I did find twelve napkins that matched the now missing tablecloth. Had I accidentally thrown it away? I searched every nook and crevice. Yesterday I had a brainstorm. Could it be in the plastic bin in the basement marked "Thanksgiving"? This morning I went down, carefully slid the bin out and down. Even though the bins are see through plastic, I'd not seen a tablecloth. But this time I opened the lid and there it was, along with another tablecloth, under a wreath that effectively hid it from sight. Shostokovich began ringing in my ears. I had FOUND this stupid tablecloth, after spending an absurd number of hours searching for it. The triviality of the whole effort was not lost on me, but my, my, the satisfaction when I spread it out on the dining room table. I was not losing my mind. Or rather, I had, but the world was still orderly enough that NOTHING COULD VANISH INTO THIN AIR.
Who knows how I will next waste my time, which clearly is not valuable. At least, for the moment, I think how wise I was to buy the bins, lug them home and up the stairs, sort, throw away, save and label them so that I could one day remember that lost things were to be found in the basement, labeled Christmas, party stuff, Halloween, family papers, so and so's books, toys and papers. I'm a genius, when I'm not an idiot!
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