I lose things in January.
Two years ago I wrote about my laundry-chute-cum-wormhole; two years before that I wrote about losing a friend's charitable contribution. So maybe I only lose things in January of even-numbered years. But it makes some sense to me that I'd lose things in January: all of the Christmas gifts need new homes, and at the beginning of the year I am usually resolving to Organize All The Things. Putting things away in whirling dervish mode is an excellent way to ensure that some of your family's belongings will end up in Secret Hiding Places.
My husband gave me a pair of black yoga pants for Christmas. They were perfect -- not too snug and not too loose. I tried them on in the downstairs bathroom, and then I...
...I've been trying to finish that sentence for the past three weeks. At last, I think I have an answer.
At my 12yo's urging, I read His Majesty's Dragon right after I finished my Crazy Shakespeare Project. It was so much fun that I galloped through the rest of the series. (Recommended, by the way. Uneven -- she's no Patrick O'Brian -- but laugh-out-loud funny and an interesting jaunt through alternate history. I've been dreaming of dragons.) In the sixth book they travel across Australia, where they have repeated and alarming encounters with creatures called bunyips.
The bunyips engineer underground streams to create water holes, and then lurk nearby to snatch their unsuspecting prey. At first the novel's characters have no idea why the members of their party are vanishing; later, they can hardly credit the speed and rapacity of the bunyip they observe in action.
Obviously, that's my problem.
I put an important piece of paper in a sensible place, like the file labeled "Taxes 2011," but the bunyip tunnels through the back of the file cabinet. Sluuurrrrp! I go back in search of that paper, but there is only a telltale trace of bunyip drool. I toss that pair of hand-knit socks in the washing machine, but the bunyip is hungry and only one appears in the laundry basket. And my yoga pants? Imagine the stealthy bunyip, disappearing into the ductwork with black Lycra trailing from his greedy jaws.
I suppose I should be grateful he's not the man-eating variety, but I'd like my yoga pants back all the same.