I'm a pen lover. Always have been. There's just something magical about the feeling of a pen in hand that inspires me.
But not any pen will do. It has to be my favorite. And when those disappear, my day goes downhill ... rapidly.
As it did the other day.
I began my search in the typical fashion by searching my desk and all the logical places in the nearby vicinity. But, the problem is, I'm not always logical in the places I lay down my pens. Especially when distracted. I have found my pens in the laundry room, garage, outside porch, on top of the fridge ... practically any horizontal surface can become a dropping off point for my pens. And, with three kids, six cats, one dog, and a husband around the house, there are numerous opportunities for me to find myself distracted! Which means my pens can be found a.n.y.w.h.e.r.e.
After completing my preliminary survey without success, I began phase two of my search and recovery mission ... interrogations. Because, with three kids, nine cats, one dog, and a husband around the house there is always the possibility of someone inadvertently walking off with one of my favorites.
"Have you seen my pen?" I query each and every household member. Heads shake. Shoulders shrug. Faces look blank.
No one knows where my pen is.
No one even knows what my pen looks like.
Until I ask Alyssa -- my ever helpful eleven-year-old with photographic memory. The one I can rely on to remember anything!
She actually takes the time to stop and think about what I have asked, causing my heart to skip a beat. "Is it that purple pen you're always holding?" she asks. I nod. "The one with the black gripper-thingy on the the side?" My eyes widen at her description and I nod a little more enthusiastically. "And it has a button at one end that you can click?" I nod again. Ally picks up on my enthusiasm and her words tumble over one another as she continues. "And it has some white writing on that black clip on the side, right?"
Yes! That's the one! She described it perfectly!
She stares off into space momentarily as if envisioning the very writing utensil in question. My eyes lock onto her face, my feet prepare to race in whatever direction she will send me. My heart pounds excitedly. Like an athlete awaiting the starting gun to fire, my body is at attention.
But she only shrugs and shakes her head. "Nope. Haven't seen that one for a long time."
My face contorts slightly as opposing emotions struggle to register themselves in my expression. My shoulders droop and I shuffle off once more towards the last place I remember seeing my pen.
Sigh. Sometimes false hope is worse than having no hope at all.