Well, I finally did it—did what I tried so hard not to do. I lost my sunglasses.
I said “lost” rather than “misplaced” because there is a big—HUGE—difference between the two words. When one says she misplaced her keys or phone or a $20 bill, she means that she is confident the item will turn up—eventually.
When she says she lost her sunglasses, she means they did not turn up at all, ever.
Misplaced indicates hope; lost is definite, as in vanished, irretrievable—gone for-ev-er.
Last week I cleaned out a couple of my purses—something I should do more often. Between the two, I found a “misplaced” tube of my favorite lipstick, along with a bonus $5 bill and a check bearing an April date.
I did not find my shades.
The check was written by a friend to reimburse me for play tickets I’d purchased. “Singin’ in the Rain” was delightful, as always, but I digress.
I’m putting off a sad confession: I was not aware I had misplaced the money or the check. Ouch. It hurts to admit the absentminded truth.
Yet, sometimes, the less I know, the better.
It would be oh, so freeing if I could put the lost pair of sunglasses, the ones I wore every day, out of my mind. In order to achieve such bliss, I’d have to catch selective amnesia. I want to forget about the glasses but remember everything else.
I don’t think it is possible to catch amnesia—a good thing.
On the other hand, maybe I already amnesia. My mind is totally blank when it comes to where I left my shades.
The same week my sunglasses disappeared, I looked for, but could not find a credit card. At first glance, a missing credit card may seem a far more serious problem than lost sunglasses.
A credit card can be reported missing, then canceled and replaced. Favorite sunglasses can sometimes be replaced, just not my favorite sunglasses. The store where I purchased them no longer carries the exact pair.
I scavenged through my wallet and desk, but the misplaced credit card turned up on my dresser. My shades were not hanging out with it, much to my dismay.
I’m not certain why I continue to mourn their absence. After all, sunglasses are a material item.
Maybe my anguish stems from the fact that finding sunglasses with the right look and fit happens less often than discovering a great book. Maybe I’m just angry with myself for being careless.
When I walk inside from outside, I often tilt my shades up on my head. Other times, I hang them on the front of my shirt.
I never put my sunglasses in a pocket and seldom slide them into a purse for fear they might get scratched or crushed. There’s never any room in my bags anyway. They are far too crowded with other things I’ve misplaced.
My lost sunglasses were not the ones I used for tennis, running, biking, and golf, but they served a purpose nonetheless. The shades I lost added a little style to my otherwise normal and drab existence.
They were constructed of some kind of yellow-gold plastic. Still, they were the perfect sunglasses to wear to the lake or to the beach and while shopping and driving. The lenses were not too dark or too light. For sun protection, there were just right.
My sunglasses were not pricey. They bore no designer tags. I think I paid $50 after they caught my eye, which comes down to $3.13 per month in the 16 or so months I called them mine.
I’m pretty sure someone else is now calling my sunglasses her sunglasses—for a whopping $0.00 per month.