I hereby resign as the Keeper of the Stuff. This means that I will no longer keep track of where you put the gift certificate you got a month ago, nor the shoes you’ve somehow misplaced once again, or the papers, scissors, and the cheese you left out on the counter last night.
If you leave something on the kitchen table or countertops that are not A. napkins or B. a coffee maker, I will move them and then promptly forget where I’ve put them. Frankly, this is nothing new, but it continues to surprise and confound you, so I thought I’d make it official.
If you are headed somewhere where I will not be either joining you or dropping you off, I will not provide detailed instructions on how to get there, when you should arrive, or what the weather might be like. Contrary to popular belief, these are not innate abilities of people who possess two X chromosomes. Besides, it’s filling up my brain, and I need to clear out some disk space to make room for other things, such as: when your soccer club money is due, what we’re having for dinner on Monday, where tomorrow’s birthday party is and when, who’s in my carpool from Cub Scouts, whether you’ve got clean socks, if the mortgage has been paid, when your current events project is due, what to get my mother-in-law for her birthday, where the 1099s for the 2008 taxes are being stored until the accountant asks for them, how many words I have yet to write in my book due to my publisher on March 1st (23,916) even though you are talking to me while I write, where the throat lozenges are located, when your annual pediatrician’s checkup needs to be scheduled (now) and what time American Idol starts, among other things. I simply don’t have the room for whatever it is you just asked me for.
And so, I resign. This will make my life easier, as you will no longer be compelled to ask me where your things are. It will make your life easier, too, because it will save you from the crushing disappointment that so frequently follows such inquiries. Perhaps you will even begin to be your own Keepers of Your Own Stuff. Who knows? All I know is that you’re out of socks, the birthday party is at the ice skating rink, and I’ve still got 23,916 words to write by March 1st, even though you’re talking to me while I write.