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That Thing
I found that thing yesterday. You know, that thing I lost two years ago. I remember being frantic about it at the time — not because I needed to have the thing, but because there was absolutely no way I could have lost it.

It couldn’t have happened, but I have to admit that these little episodes do occur. What’s more, they tend to undermine my self-image as a place-for-everything-and-everything-in-its-place, thoroughly together kind of guy. I can deal was this, but it will force me to spend a lot of time gathering evidence to contradict the growing mountain of data showing that I am not that guy. This will surely be exhausting, especially with all the time I’m already spending to prove that I am as young as I used to be. I’m beginning to suspect that such efforts may, in fact, be futile.

There had been a place for that thing two years ago, but the thing wasn’t in it when I looked. I am forced to admit that it had been used (by me, it seems, and not by my wife, who is always the prime suspect in these mysteries) then carelessly set down and forgotten. When I finally found the thing, it had been sorely abused by the elements. It had once been a nice thing; now it is shabby.

I have found a new place for the thing (it had long ago been displaced by a new version of itself), a place more suitable to its degraded condition. It will be a sheltered place, I have decided, but with plenty of the fresh air it has become accustomed to. Now I have to decide whether to make the new place clearly visible or to banish that thing from my sight.

My concern is that a prominent placement would constitute a further affront to my self-image, a constant reminder that I am not what I present myself to be. If I see it every day, it might even encourage me to abandon the hopeless task of proving the unprovable and to accept that I am flawed, weak, and unworthy of love. Such a realization would be healthy, no doubt, and signal the onset of some long overdue maturation. As with most advances toward maturity, however, this process would be painful and humiliating.

Right now it seems better for me to continue being immature. I suppose I might miss out on some deeper happiness, but I can’t imagine that it would be worth all the hassle. Life is simply too short for agonizing self-appraisal. I will conceal the thing in a less obvious place, then, and thereby avoid an excruciating confrontation with my own inadequacy.

I don’t see any harm coming from this choice. If I do forget where the new place for that thing is, I’ll just ask my wife a few pointed questions about when she last saw it and her whereabouts at the time it went missing. I am confident that she will have the maturity not to feel threatened by my accusatory tone and just tell me where it is.
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Trump supporters are people who know what they believe.
~ JC, Bonny Doon