It’s good to be home… for the most part. I guess I got it into my head that returning to my apartment after 25 days would be some glorious moment–you know, running in and collapsing on the bed with a gigantic sigh of relief or something. Instead it was hot. And smelly. It’s hard to describe what my apartment smells like. Well, imagine you had shrimp, chocolate-covered raspberry ice cream bars, blueberries and meatballs all in your freezer. And then while you are out of the country a flood causes your building to lose power for three weeks and all that stuff in your freezer melts or rots. That’s what my apartment smells like. Actually, now it smells like that mixed with bleach.
Yes, it’s good to be home.
Except I can’t really focus on what it’s like to sleep in my own bed again or have all my clothes in an actual closet. All I can think about is my ring. I am not normally the type that loses things. I’ve had the same cell phone for three years and counting. Yet somehow after living in seven different hotels and one house over the past 25 days I managed to lose my ring. Stephen gave it to me on our first anniversary and I’ve grown quite fond of it. I only wear it on special occasions. The last time I remember wearing it was at Charles’ wedding in Hong Kong, the last stop on our trip. So that means it is either in Hong Kong or in Chicago. That narrow it down, right? Normally when I lose something I retrace my steps or try to remember the last time I saw the thing. But today my mind is mush. Did I wear my ring last week? Did I wear it on the airplane back to the States? I have absolutely no idea. It’s not like me to leave something at a hotel, I always do a thorough inspection before checking out. The ring is not small and I know I would have seen it lying on a counter. But why can’t I find it now? It’s driving me nuts. I’m hoping one of the hotels I’ve called will tell me they found it or it will randomly appear sometime over the next few days.
Misplacing my ring isn’t the only thing that makes me think I’m losing my mind. Yesterday I got gas in my car (for the first time since May…I don’t drive enough). A few blocks after leaving the gas station Stephen informed me that people were pointing at me. Why were they pointing at me? Because I left my gas tank cap open. Not just the gas tank door, the cap too. How is that even possible? How could I forget to do something so obvious? It blows my mind and honestly frightens me a little.
You know what I could use now? A chocolate-covered raspberry ice cream bar.