Monday, February 06, 2006

I've reached a difficult point in my life, one in which I hesitate to admit that I have, in fact, lost my circular needles.

*gasp* *choke* *sob*

Yes, yes. It is very hard. You see, I know for a fact that I do own four pairs: sizes 7, 8, 9, and 10.
But when, on a cleaner day, one's bedroom looks like this:

locating just one object at a given time can be a consuming task.
(Okay, so it might not even look that bad from the picture, but be reminded that the area under the bed does not photograph well. This is not the worst of it; in the full spectrum this is really just your average corner.)

I have searched for those needles. I have torn my room apart--which is either an oxymoronic or redundant expression to make knowing my room--I do not quite know which.
They are not under a pile of clothes by the door. They are not in the box of knitting stuff. They are not on my nightstand. They are not on the bookshelf, behind it, or underneath the pile in front of it. They are not in the pile of fabric and tangled yarn in front of my closet. They are not under my bed. They are not in my box of sheet music. They are not in the pile of clothes next to my bed, alongside the lamp, or surrounding my cello stand. They are not in my cello bag, backpack, or the bag of stuff I never unpacked from Christmas. They are not in the box of fabric paint, box of felt, or random cardboard box where one might find a high heeled shoe and a marzipan pig.

This is the point where I agree to submit my obstinance to the notion that maybe they really are lost. All four pairs. Now it is time for me to make a plan for how I might go about living my life without them, for which I do not know if I am ready yet. A ceremony? A sculptured monument in their honor?

No one else understands.


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