Midlife crisis, part one: losing my mind

I was standing in the kitchen talking to my husband last week, and he told me he was irritated because of something I’d told him earlier in the week that turned out not to be true. 

What was it? I sure don’t know. I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. He remembered the (alleged) conversation in great detail. As I stood there listening to him recount what I said, I thought, “One of us must be crazy (and it’s not me)”!

I am quite sure that this conversation never happened. He is quite sure that it did. So, we sensibly backed off and let it go, nervous about where this particular road might take us, should we choose to pursue it.

Then today, I got to the parking garage at work and started to gather up my multitude of bags: bag with paperwork and reading material, check. Oversized insulated bag with my breakfast, lunch, and dinner, check. Pocketbook….pocketbook…with calendar, money, scissors, teabags, special cloth to clean eyeglasses, other miscellaneous detritus…NOT HERE!

I think back, retrace my morning steps. I am sure I carried my pocketbook and old navy plastic bag (with extra miscellaneous stuff) to the car this morning, as I stepped over my tween daughter who was sitting on the floor (in full tween drama mode) blocking my exit to flee the house.

Breathe. Breathe.

I call my husband, to share the insanity. I tell him that I can’t find my pocketbook. He says, “It’s right here, hanging on the back of the kitchen chair…next to an Old Navy bag”.

HOW could this be true? Yet I was faced with the undisputable evidence that what I thought I did this morning in no way resembled what I actually did do.

Plus, now I’m worried that my husband was indeed right in the first example above, and I was wrong. Oh-oh.

At this point, instead of “I told you so!”  he then said, kindly: “Why don’t you sit in your car and meditate for  a few minutes?” I did have time to do this now, since I’d come to Portland early to shop at the farmers market, but my farmers market money was home in my pocketbook.

Breathe. So Hum. Contemplate being unconscious in my own life.