Uh Uh, left it at yoga class last Wednesday. The room was dark and my journal, a large sketchbook, has a black color. I have poor color differentiation. I’d have gone back to Midnight Sun Yoga Studio and retrieved it, but the staff has odd hours. It’s closed when there is no class. So I’m just going to keep writing and put my handwritten draft in my journal when I get it back, if I ever get it back. This was bound to happen. This is so me. I might also have left our yoga mat behind. I put my name on it, in big letters, with a black sharpie, so I am sure to get it back, that is if I misplaced it.

Yesterday I thought I lost my wallet, but I found it in the bottom of the duffel bag I keep my strength training gear in. Again, poor color differentiation. Must be a rods and cones kind of thing. Maybe I need to eat more carrots.

The less you own, the less you have to lose. If, say, I had just a few books, a few clothes items, and just one cup, I most likely would not lose these things. I think I’d be overall less anxious – every morning, the first thing I ask myself when I get up is what of mine is currently missing? Usually not a good way to start the day because something always is missing. Always.

I’d say that my losing things is a sign of impending dementia, but I don’t think so. Maybe this is a form of denial, but then those that are demented are in the moment and therefore less inclined to deny things than the rest of us. For one thing, I always know what I have lost or misplaced. And quite often, I find what I’m looking for in retracing my steps. Or I get Pete to retrace my steps. (Those who are suffering from dementia are also not manipulative.) Doing things like watering the tomato plants with gasoline, now that’s dementia for you.

If I was diagnosed as having Al’s Disease, I’d go and jump off an iceberg, into the very cold Matanuska River. I do not ever want others to care for me because it would be frustrating, time-consuming, and costly.

And I must say, just because I lose things does not mean I am a loser.

I wonder if my yoga instructor will read my journal. The entries, at least most of them, are indecipherable. I use it to generate ideas, problem solve, and ruminate. I hope that I don’t have to spend time bemoaning the loss of this journal – I like it because it’s large and sketchbook-like. I found it at the thrift store; it cost me 50 cents.

If it’s not at the yoga studio, it is elsewhere, now off on another journey. I’d like to think that whoever ends up with it is an artist and do some nice sketches. I’d hate for it to end up in the hands of mathematician. Wait, this might not be so bad because the notes of such people are in their own way, art.

Next: 52. 2/21/19: Finding My Journal