Ron, much to my dismay, travels quite a bit for his job. I end up with waaaay too much time on my hands and really kind of go stir crazy after the first couple of days. (At this point, I'm sure many of you are thinking, "Well, she is retired, she could be doing something.) And you would be right. I'm still in the process of discovering where I'm being drawn (see earlier post). Until the light has dawned, I'll be here, counting the hours until my beloved returns to me. (In my defense, I have cleaned out every drawer, cabinet and nook and cranny in our home, which was very cathartic.)
The other day, before this most recent trip, Ron asked me if I felt safe here when he was gone. Our townhome is pretty much brand new, but the surrounding area is a teeny bit marginal. I said I felt safe, not to worry. I was fine.
Until the other day. It was the day of my boob squish appointment and the day I got caught in the typhoon (funny side note: just as I reached my car, which was parked in the second-to-last spot in the far corner of the lot, I had to turn into the rain. It was like someone dumped a HUGE bucket of water on my head. I'm pretty sure I squealed. I think walking a half block in driving rain should count as my bucket challenge for ALS this year.)
After I got home, I dried off, wrung out my clothes and snuggled into some sweats and a hoodie. When it was finally time to go to bed (when you're alone, the hours drag on foreverrrrrrr) I went into the closet and reached into the cubby with my pj's and they weren't there. Hmmm. That was odd. We have a couple of shoe cubbies in our closet and I always put my pjs in the same one. I pulled everything out -twice - and looked. No luck.
I looked in the laundry basket. I looked in the cabinet. I went into the bedroom to see if I had, atypically, peeled them off as soon as I got out of bed. Still no jammies.
I retraced my steps that morning. I took a shower, so I would have disrobed in the bathroom. Such a puzzlement.
It was then that the idea that someone had come into our home when I was at the boob squishers and made off with my pajamas. Because - and don't tell anyone - I've been known to purposely leave the back door unlocked so I can make a quick entrance in case of heavy rain (See? Completely necessary that day), or because my hands are generally full and it's a pain to fumble with the keys. Whatever. There's a six foot high fence surrounded by trees and a locked garage any intruder would have to master, but still...
I briefly thought about telephoning Ron to tell him I did NOT feel safe because my pajamas were missing so he could NEVER travel again. Then the real panic set in.
There was an episode, many years ago, on ER where Alan Alda starred as a preeminent physician in the early stages of Alzheimer's. He was telling a colleague of his that one of the first signs he noticed was that he couldn't find his glasses and he finally found them in the freezer.
What if my bleeping pajamas are in the freezer? I couldn't even bear to walk the fifty feet to the fridge to find out.
One last search of the cubby. Sure enough, one slot beneath my usual stashing hole, there they were, shoved way to the back so I couldn't see them. Usually my tennis shoes are in those two cubbies, but I tend to be a bit of a slob when Ron's gone so they were in the living room. That's a total lie. About the slob part. I find it amazing how clean (or tidy, there IS a difference) our home can be with very little effort.
Perhaps I should become a slob...it would at least give me something to do every day. Besides freaking out about misplaced jammies.
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