I was having one today.
I got up this morning and couldn't find my "list book".
My list book is a little pocket-sized reporter style lined Moleskine notebook in which I make lists and lists of all the things I need to do - today, this week, this month, this quarter... it's the ONLY way in hell I can keep all my spinning plates balanced.
And I couldn't find my damn book.
I searched e v e r y w h e r e. Everywhere. The cars, the roof, under the cat. Every conceivable and inconceivable place that it could possibly be hiding.
Finally (and this is early afternoon by now mind you) I decided that there was nothing for it but to drive all the way across town and buy a new one.
Do I have a dozen blank little notebooks hiding all over the studio?
Are they pocket-sized reporter style lined Moleskine notebook?
No. They. Are. Not.
With illogical tears welling up in my eyes I drove.
I KNEW the exact style of the book should not in any way matter. I knew this completely. But that sensory issue, slightly OCD little girl inside of me simply could not cope.
I got out of the car at the bookstore and realized I was wearing two different shoes.
With a mis-match-shoed walk of shame, I scurried into the shop, found my book, bought it and instantly - a flood of relief filled me. I had my book. The world was right. It was 2pm, and I had wasted a ton of my day and hadn't gotten a damn thing done yet, but that didn't matter.
I don't know why some days I can keep one million things together smooth and cool and some days - that little girl who just need her book - HER book- takes over.
I guess every now and then you just have to give the illogical a little rein and give yourself a break.
Some days are just like that.