Things You Forget

Sometimes forgetting your wallet is a lot like forgetting your address. You know where it is but can't get to it right now. Yesterday, on my way to the gym, I figured I'd stop at Borders to pick up a new journal, and I'd go to Bi-Mart too, since it's next door.

I had this super saver coupon for Borders, and actually wanted to stop on Tuesday, but then I remembered I also had a gift card left at home, so I waited. Thursday rolls around, like a marble in the dirt, and I make sure my coupon and gift card are in my purse before taking off.

Then I get to Bi-Mart. I never go to Bi-Mart. I haven't gone there for at least a year and a half, ever since I moved towns. But I still have my Bi-Mart card. A Bi-Mart card is like a Gold Circle Club card, only it allows you access to flannel and discounted cans of cashews. Regardless, you need it to get in.

There I am, in the parking lot, rifling through my purse looking for my wallet so that I can pull out my flimsy plastic yellow card to flash at the employee standing at the door, who will then let me swirl myself through the rotating metal gate. I swear these particular Bi-Mart employees are exactly like bouncers at some hot Hollywood club, only they are lacking in biceps and wear red cotton vests. Or is it blue? It's been so long I don't remember.

Only thing is, I can't find my wallet. So I figure, it probably fell out in the car. So I walk back to my car, look around, and find nothing but a used paper cup. It's then that I remember that I left my wallet in my book bag, which I toted around at a three day conference earlier in the week. My initial reaction is to drive home immediately to get my wallet, because no wallet means no driver's license, and that is breaking the rules. Logic hits and I realize that the only other place I am going is the gym, and I will go home straight after that anyway. So whatev.

But I still want to go to Borders. Luckily, my gift card has just been sloppily thrown in to my purse, much like how a child puts away his toys. Though if I had thought to tuck the card into my wallet while at home, I probably wouldn't be in this predicament. I do some mental math and figure out how much I have left on the card. As long as I don't buy a journal worth more than eleven dollars, I'm good. Plus, I've got the coupon.

I walk inside. The AC hits me and it's like cold sheets on a hot summer night. The smell of a bookstore is much better than the smell of a library. While they both have that really excellent scent of thousands of pages, the bookstore boasts freshness. No water damage or boogers found in the middle of pages.

If I could write my own love story, I'd be perusing some new literature in a bookstore when some dark-haired, handsome, artistic-type notices the book cover and says something to me like "Oh, I read that while vacationing in Italy." And I'd ask him how he liked it (both the book and Italy) and he'd describe it all to me, and we'd get to talking, and there'd be so much to talk about that he'd ask me to coffee, and I'd say yes even though I hate coffee. But then I'd order tea and he would tell me how he plays the guitar and writes love songs for the girl he's never met, but of course now he's met me, so he can start using my name in them instead of just ambivalent descriptions. However, this will never happen to me because I'm always looking at the wrong sort of book covers in bookstores. Sophie Kinsella books rarely lend themself well to male interaction. But I digress.

There I am in Borders, looking for a journal. I find one I like shortly after, and start to do the math. One-hundred, minus the percent of my coupon, multiplied by the cost of the journal. Then what's twenty subtract eight thirty-eight? Do I have enough? It's that childhood memory of being in the drugstore, counting out your dimes and trying to figure out if you have enough money to buy the Silly Putty and the candy bar. I realize I'm twenty-three cents short. No problem, I think, I've got a coin purse. But then I don't. It's in my book bag at home, too. For a fleeting moment I think about asking strangers for quarters. But my pride and lack of confidence leads me back to my car, digging around in one of the compartments for loose change. While I'm out there, I decide to make a phone call to the Borders Gift Card Center to find out exactly how much is left on the card. With this verified information, I do some more math and realize I don't need the change anyway. But I put the coins in my pocket just to be safe.

I walk back in, find the journal again, get in line, and pray I haven't made some stupid miscalculation that will cause me embarrassment. Like maybe the coupon is only good for books with words in them, not blank journals. Or maybe my gift card is only good on Fridays. I approach the cashier. He has dark brown hair that needs to be cut. He smiles at me, and I think about asking him if he plays the guitar or has been to Italy.

I lay the coupon on the counter with the book, and he asks me "Do you have your Border's rewards card?" Because, oh shit, it's in my wallet. And you can't use the coupon unless you have your member card. Luckily for me, I drove here, which means I have my keys, which means I have my key chain, which means I have that little plastic thing on it, next to the one I swipe every time I go to the gym. Just last week I thought about taking the dumb thing off, because I don't shop at Border's that much, and I have a card in my wallet, and why would I go shopping without my wallet?

"I have this little guy," I say, as I dangle the baby card on my keys, much like how Michael Jackson might have suspended his infant out of a window, God rest his soul.

"That works," says the Border's employee. He does all of his scanning and I walk away with a new journal and fifteen cents left on my gift card. Which might be enough to buy a single tea bag, should my lover ever find me at Borders.