I Don't Like Losing Things.

In one of my previous entries, "Dear PAT, I Hate You," I mentioned that I lost a pair of my gloves during the commute from hell. They were cheap gloves, the stretchy once-size-fits-all kind, and they came in a two pack for under $5. Anyone else would have cut their losses and bought a new pair (or used their second pair), but no, not me, because I don't like losing things.

One time, in my younger days, after a night of debauchery, I awoke to discover that I couldn't find my favorite necklace, which I was certain I'd been wearing the night before. After digging around my apartment in the odd little places in which we sometimes place things unexpectedly, I discovered a single bead from my necklace in the bottom of my purse. Finding a single bead from a necklace that is comprised of glass beads on a string is never, never a good sign. I thought that maybe by some miracle of science it was possible that one bead had come off of the necklace with the rest of the necklace remaining in tact (impossible, I know), so I went out into my neighborhood to retrace all the possible paths I might have taken home the night previous.

On my way, I found a few beads scattered on the sidewalk and a bunch in the gutter. I started to pick them up and collect them in my pocket until I reached my friends' apartment, where I found the only other beads I could, buried in their sofa. I told myself I would restring the necklace and everything would be as it was - except most of the beads were chipped and part of the beauty of the necklace was in its intricate pattern, which I could never recreate, and I didn't have nearly enough beads anyway.

I also found four of the five pieces of one of my charm bracelets on the same trek. The missing piece, a silver ball that screwed on one end, remains hidden somewhere and will likely induce much head-scratching when it is discovered by the next, or next-next occupants of my friends' old apartment. The charm bracelet sits, useless (because without the secure ball on the end all the charms can fall off), on my desk as some sort of reminder that I should be a responsible human being. I look at it any time I want to feel guilty.

I gave up on the necklace however, realizing that two homages to guilt were a bit much and instead of making a shrine to all of the broken pieces, I crossed my fingers and went back to the shop where I bought it and bought the most similar necklace I could find, except that the colors aren't nearly as pretty (the old one was blue and green, this one is white and yellow). For some reason though, having the replacement necklace makes me feel a little better about breaking the old one, like I was able to partially replace something that was irreplaceable (or at least able to replace something that was handmade and imported).

So, I'm ridiculous.

Anyway, a few days after the commute from hell, I decided to retrace my footsteps from bus stop to front door and see if I couldn't find my missing gloves. I knew I'd opened my bag on the bus just before my stop, seen them buried among my things, closed my bag, and then exited. I figured I had a pretty good chance of finding them.

I figured out a way I could get to the bus stop and retrace my footsteps making a perfect loop through my neighborhood so I wouldn't have to make any u-turns or re-walk the same path once I reached the bus stop.

About a block from the bus stop, I saw a little black mound in the snow. Sweet nectar, my gloves migrated! As I reached the little black mound, I discovered a pair of black gloves, but they were not stretchy, they were fleece. Damn. I thought about taking them in lieu of my missing gloves but decided, ultimately, that one of the greatest small joys I experience is finding a lost item, and so to deny someone else that potential joy seemed unfair. I continued on.

A couple blocks away, retracing my footsteps, I saw another black mound sticking out of the snow. Success! I approached the second black mound only to discover that it was a pair of leather gloves this time, instead of my stretchy gloves. The only notable thing about these gloves, other than the fact that they were the second pair of black gloves on my path that weren't mine, was that one of them had been filled with snow, which then melted and later refroze so that it was filled with a block of solid ice. I tapped the ice hand on a retaining wall as I contemplated the odds of finding two pairs of black gloves that were not my mine. Since I couldn't remember a thing from stats I settled on guessing that the odds were pretty low, but higher than I would like to imagine, simply because most adults wear black gloves.

I walked home, defeated and gloveless, but content in knowing that I had at least tried.


Two days later I found my black gloves stuffed in my sock drawer, no doubt placed there by me when I was feverishly unlayering all of my many layers after the commute from hell.


Yep.


Also, if anyone knows where I can get those strings that kids wear to connect their gloves to their coat sleeves, I'd be much obliged if you'd tell me.


UPDATE:

Amazing! I just googled "don't lose your gloves" (trying to look for those little glove strings) and the first hit I got was for a CNN article about a Web site that a Carnegie Mellon student started in Pittsburgh, www.onecoldhand.com, to reunite people with lost gloves! Apparently it has branched out to other cities since it's inception so go ahead and check to see if your city has one.

You can read the article here.

I am off to see if those gloves are still where I left them, and if so, to take them to a drop box. This made my day.