I don’t want to alarm anyone, but I seem to be losing my mind.
Normally I am a fairly organized person. Not type A exactly, but a huge part of my job for the last eight years has been organizing logistics, including travel.
So why, now that I’m organizing the biggest trip of my own life, have I turned into someone so ditzy that if my life were a movie, I would be played by a young Marilyn Monroe?
Take my netbook. You may recall that I was going to order one so I wouldn’t have to risk the life of my Macbook Pro in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Order one I did, and I got an email that its anticipated arrival time (or language to that effect) was a Friday. My mother works from home on Fridays, so I asked her to keep an eye out for it. When I got home that evening I asked if it had arrived, and she said no, but since the confirmation had only said “anticipated” arrival time, I immediately stashed that issue on the closet floor of my mind.
Fast forward to Monday night. “Whatever happened to that netbook,” I wondered. I called up the company I ordered it from, and lo and behold, they had delivered it on Friday—to the wrong house number.
Because I had entered the wrong house number when I ordered it.
Now, while it is true that my parents moved into this house only four months ago, I have never once forgotten the street number. So this was definitely my error, 100%. A fact which both I and Customer Service Lady were completely cognizant of.
In other words, if I could not get my neighbors (who could be mafiosos, for all I knew) to give me back my computer (which, while much cheaper than a Macbook Pro, was by no means cheap), I was screwed. By my own careless fingers.
At this point it was basically Civilized People Bedtime o’clock, and sleeting. But I had to at least try to find the netbook. So I begged my mother to join me in what was sure to be the thankless task of donning many layers, heading out into the slush, and waking up her new neighbors.
So we tromped up the street, peering ineffectually into the darkness, trying to make out house numbers. Fortunately there weren’t many options. We soon singled out the house that must be it. All the windows were completely dark, of course. And the driveway was empty. It looked like no one had been home for days. But as I slipped and slid up the driveway, I could just make out a lump on their porch, under the snow.
I dusted it off, and lo and behold, it was my sodden package, which the FedEx guy had left—without a signature!—four days before. The paper was so moist it came apart in my hands.
My mother could hardly speak. “You. Are. So. Lucky!”
Long story short, the computer works fine; so I guess I won’t have to locate my mind anytime soon.