In my head is the knowledge that camels have pear-shaped erythrocytes, that in oysters copper carries oxygen, not iron. I know that land heats and cools faster than water, that the hand, immobilized in any but the position of function, is destined to be a perpetual fly-swatter. I can recall who cast the vote in the Oregon legislature to doom the first gay-rights bill in the late 70s. I know how to say "welcome to Wales" in Welsh.
All these things I can pull out of the crevices of my mind. But I cannot tell you for sure where my car keys are. Even though I swear I put them the same place. Every. Single. Time. Still, I spend an inordinate amount of time looking for them.
They must move on their own. They tuck themselves into parts of my purse I never open. They hide behind the cushion in the chair near where I dump my purse. They walk into the kitchen and take up residence on the counter near the stove.
If I could find the other set of keys, this would not be a problem. However, I'm the only one who carries a key to my car. My husband refuses to carry more than one remote so the second set of keys is God-knows-where in, around or near his bureau. If I want to leave the house on anything other than my bike or my feet, I need to find my keys.
And I never can.
Other inanimate objects refuse to stay where I put them. Or where I'm quite sure I put them. Things like the hairbrush that belongs in my gym bag. I have, over the years, purchased a half-dozen small brushes for my purse and gym bag. None of them is ever where I need it to be. If I need one in my purse, they're all on the shelf in my closet. Need one in a gym bag? They're all in the purse I left at home. Not a problem after an exercise class, you say? Except that I often go for coffee with friends after our class and drowned-haystack-in-a-windstorm is not a good look for me.
I suppose I don't need to add that my cell phone has learned bad habits from my hairbrush and car keys. Only when I've plugged it in to charge it do I know where it is. And please don't tell me to find it by calling it from another phone. First, I have it turned off most of the time so it doesn't annoy me. Second, do you really think I know the number? I mean, I'm too busy remembering "geography is the study of the relation of man (sic) to his (sic) natural environment" and "i before e except after c, when followed by g as in neighbor or weigh." How can I be expected to remember a phone number?
Okay, some of what I pull out of my gray matter is semi-useful, like the "i before e thing." But the secret to the 9 times table isn't. Nor is the system for numbering the highways and exits of the interstate highway system. And yet I know them.
I have finally given up hope that it will change. I just factor in a ten minute search every time I want to leave the house.
Speaking of time, I see it's time to run errands. Have to find the damn keys first. Maybe they're near my gym bag from exercise class this morning.
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