My daughter says the thing she hates most of all is being cold. I believe her. When I ride with her, summer or winter, the temperature inside her car is at least 100 degrees.
What I hate worst is having to look for things.
My history of losing things goes way back. When I was in high school, I loved writing with fountain pens, fine point ones with blue ink. I still do, in fact. Back then, I almost looked forward to doing homework if I had my fountain pen.
I got off the bus about 100 yards from my house. One day when I got home from school, I discovered I had lost my pen.
I retraced my steps back to the bus stop to see if I had dropped it while walking home. Sure enough, there it lay, my red fountain pen, completely squashed in the middle of the road. A car had run over it.
That was a sad day, but here is the pathetic part. The exact same event occurred a few weeks later, this time with a blue fountain pen.
I routinely lose my car in parking lots. I try hard to remember where I parked my car before going into a store. Yet invariably, I later wind up pushing my loaded cart up and down parking aisles, frantically pressing the unlock button on my key fob, listening for the familiar beep signaling me that my car is nearby.
Often, I get myself lost.
I grew up in the country and our house was situated on a dirt road. I knew nothing about towns being laid out on grids. Most of our roads had no names. They were referred to in terms that made perfect sense to those of us who lived there. My friend, for example, lived on the dirt road near the old field where Mr. Shelton used to keep his cows.
Therefore, though I’ve lived in a “gridded” town for many years, I don’t trust the people who laid out those grids. To be on the safe side, when I drive to a new place, I turn around and return home by the exact same path.
Recently I picked up my four-year-old grandson from his preschool. I parked in front of the house in which his school is located. When we left, I drove halfway down the block in the same direction, turned my car around using someone’s driveway, and started home using the same route.
My grandson asked, “Grandma, why are you turning around in someone’s driveway?”
I answered, “So we can take the same street out of this neighborhood.”
He said, “Why don’t you just drive to the end of this street, turn right, turn right again, and you’ll get to the street we need?”
“Because that’s too hard,” I said.
Top among the things I look for is my phone. I average making a phone search five times a day.
My kids and grandkids laugh because whenever someone asks, “Where’s Grandma?” the rest of the people in the room join in a chorus of “Looking for her phone.”
I would consider wearing my phone inside a fanny pack except my hips are already wide enough. I carried it inside my bra until one day, while digging through a bin of frozen chicken pieces at the grocery store, I accidentally sent my sister a picture of my chest.
Remembering each time where I laid the phone down is, like making three right turns in an unfamiliar neighborhood, too hard.
If I could pull together all the hours I spend looking for things, say one hour each day, I would have an additional seven hours per week, 30 hours per month, 360+ hours per year to do other, more enjoyable, things.
Like recording a detailed inventory of everything inside my house using a fine-tipped fountain pen with blue ink.