Friday, October 12, 2007

Slippage.

There's no shortage of things I can think of to worry about. I can obsess over whether or not I remembered to pay the bills this pay period (a worthy worry, as it turns out) or whether I have--as I realized upon awakening today--scheduled myself to be in two places at one time. I worry about the bald spot that I know is developing on the back of my head due to the viciousness of my car's headrest and whether I will be the first to notice or will instead receive an anonymous email one day at the office. Some days, I fret over whether or not my pores really are as large and cavernous as they appear to me to be in the mirror.

Whatever else may be missing, I have a rich and fulfilling fretting life.

But this past Saturday, I found a grocery receipt in my purse for a bill of items that I don't remember buying. Most were things I haven't bought in years (High C Fruit Drink, baby wash and no-more-tears shampoo). I can't stop trying to figure out how this receipt happened to be in my pocketbook. Have I slipped so much that I am now buying items that I don't remember needing (and can find no evidence of in my house), or worse--do I have some sort of psychological larcenous obsession that is causing me to steal other people's grocery receipts? More alarming still--who rooted through their pocketbook this past Saturday and found the receipt for the sofa I purchased for a photo shoot (and am now needing in order to process my reimbursement)?

There's probably an entire tribe of us out there--confused, not-so-middle-aged women wandering the streets of the city, ardently searching for our grocery receipts, misplaced hairs, and concealer sticks. Please, if you spot one, send her home.

We are probably looking for her.

photo, Jan Willem Stad

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