I’m glad to hear the Bush Administration misplaced 20 million emails; now I don’t feel so bad about losing my house keys. And you can throw in all those sunglasses as well.
When I think of the intolerance others have shown when I’ve searched for keys, well, it makes my blood boil. But now I have the perfect retort: “What are you so mad about, it’s not like I’ve done this 20 million times.”
5,000 times, maybe. Which is less than a drop in the official statistical bucket. If 20 million is the new yardstick by which all loss must be measured, 5,000 times means I didn’t really lose any keys at all. Mathmatically, from a key-loss perspective, I'm practically a virgin.
Most of my life has been spent in the company of orderly people, and they can’t understand why my keys are never on the hook labeled KEYS. Or why my shoes never sleep together, or what the hammer is doing on the dining table, or why the ladder is still in the kitchen.
These are very difficult questions for a disorderly person to answer. The closest I can come is that things, things that don’t breathe, have no weight for me. Once their momentary utility ends, they cease to exist. They disappear. Mine is a life free of clutter.
Whereas my neat and orderly friends, their life is spent in the service of demon clutter -- they spindle, stab, staple, fold, file, label, worry, pack, unpack, and pack it again.
My friends and I, we’ll never fully understand each other. We’ll always be impatient with each other. My friends will never concede that finding the order you want takes as much time as finding what you want in disorder.