Living alone is great. I’m six months in and I love it. I NEVER have to wear pants. I can pee with the door open. I can leave my dirty dishes in the sink and my dirty underwear on the floor. I can drink straight out of the carton. No one judges me for having gummy worms for dinner. No one eats the last of my blue-cheese stuffed olives and then when I’m craving them says, “Oh yeah, I meant to pick some up at the store but I forgot.”. The only little snag I’ve run into in this solo dwelling adventure is my overactive imagination…
My keys disappeared the other day. I refuse to say I lost them because I always put them on my kitchen table when I get home. And I know I didn’t leave them anywhere because I used them to drive myself home and let myself in my apartment. But they are absolutely nowhere to be found. I checked the garbage. I checked the couch. I checked under the couch. I checked behind the couch. I checked the fridge. I checked behind the fridge. I checked on top of the fridge. I checked under the dirty underwear on the floor. I checked every pocket of every coat I own. I looked everywhere for those damn keys and finally had to concede that they were gone. I have a spare set so it isn’t too big of a deal but the idea that they simply vanished is just not acceptable. I can’t stop trying to figure out where they could have possibly gotten off to. This is where my imagination becomes a problem.*
The following is a text conversation between myself and my very patient boyishfriend:
Me: my keys are nowhere. at what point do I worry about this?
Eric: yikes. no idea.
Me: chances that someone came in while I was in the shower and took them are slim, right?
Eric: very slim.
Me: more likely they sprouted legs and ran off, right?
Eric: right. you’ll find them in a week under a thing that moves just slightly to the left.
Me: any idea what that thing is? I’d like to check it now.
Me: I’m convinced they’re stolen and someone’s going to break in and stab me into little pieces. it’s the only thing that makes any sense.
Eric: except it doesn’t make sense.
Eric: but you can get the locks changed anyway. feeling safe at home is important.
Me: no point in changing them. I’ll be dead.
Eric: try changing them before you die.
Me: I admit it’s not really a realistic fear.
Me: I am gonna hate saying I told you so.
Eric: you’ll be dead.
*I partially blame Beth’s addiction to Criminal Minds for my irrational murder fantasies. Thanks for fueling the fire on this one, friend. Also, in case I do get stabbed into little pieces… top dresser drawer, right hand side. Please take care of it so my mom doesn’t have to.