Lost

I lost my phone the other day. Needless to say, I went through all the five stages of grief all at once for an extended period of time. I patted myself down multiple times, tore through all my backpacks and purses, destroyed my home looking for the little rectangular box. I could have sworn I had put it in my pocket as I was leaving the Sunday rager held at my friend’s home.

My friend’s home. On the drive there, I remember a few of us had decided it was a good idea to take a stroll through the grassy lawns of our old school. So I took a detour and headed towards the soccer lawns, which were a lot harsher in daylight. Probably because the kids peered at me inquisitively while I sifted through individual blades of grass. My heart was pounding furiously and I was blinking back tears of frustration.

I could not stop thinking about all the people who probably thought I was dead or kidnapped or in the longest, dreariest meeting of my life. I got secondhand anxiety from imagining their anxiety. I rummaged through the parking lot of a 7-Eleven where I had stopped for a coffee yesterday morning and looked under tires, half-expecting to see the lifeless remains of a Motorola.

Alas, it was no good. No trace of my beautiful baby. I took a few deep breaths and lolled around in my devastation for a while. Although it was pretty terrible to not be attached to what had become my life force, it was weirdly easier to breathe and observe the non-virtual world. I looked around at the parking lot and all the people carrying groceries and the kids hurtling down with shopping carts. It was going to be okay, I guess.