Planning Dementia

MAYDAY! I've lost my planner. I've lost my soul.

It's not that I really have anything "planned" per say, but somehow not having that little book in my purse plummeted me from placid to paranoid. I used to delight in writing in all kinds of events, lunch dates and free museum days on the big blank pages. Usually the event would go overlooked since I only checked my planner every week or so, but it was reassuring to know that there was a plan in case of emergency. I kept all kinds of random lists in the Notes section: car maintenance records, low carb snacks, internet usernames/passwords, the best rated public schools in the Los Angeles area, yoga routines to relieve stress, useful ASL signs to memorize, you name it, I listed it.

And it's all gone. Four years of accumulated useless lists along with a fresh book of custom ordered Dallas Mavericks checks. I feel like an amputee. The second anyone mentions a future date my mind becomes a swirl of confusion and I become incapable of commitment to any activity. If I can't plan, I can't converse with anyone who does. It's too painful.

I know I should just buy a new planner but it has only been a week or so. And more importantly to do so would be to acknowledge that my old one is truly dead to me. As far as the five stages of grief go, I'm still in Denial. I've checked all the commonsense spots 10 times. I still look in my purse expectantly hoping that I have just overlooked it somewhere at the bottom. If I reach under my car seat one more time maybe I'll feel it's calming faux leather exterior cool my sweaty fingers. It's not impossible. And if you ask me, it's not much to ask after that whole mana incident.

So here's the action plan:

Denial: Current state. Probably will wallow here a few more days.

Anger: Blame it on my husband. He must have hid it just to push my buttons. Darn lawyer! I can maintain this for one week.

Bargaining: If I find my planner, I'll plan in some community volunteer hours. You know, setting up blogs for homeless people or become a lost pet finder. This phase will probably last no longer than 15 minutes.

Depression: Ah, me. So sad. Lost planner. 30 seconds.

Acceptance: Cha Ching! Thank goodness for Madame Plastic. Buy a new planner and scribble out a new soul from scratch.

But for now I'm off to aimlessly ramble around the same circles in my living room squinting and trying to see what obvious place I have set it. My lovely lists! I pine for you!