Well into my marriage, one of my favorite questions for my wife was: "Where's my (you fill in the blank)?" Where's my book? Where are my shirts? You name it. She could remember where it was, whatever and wherever it happened to be.
Unconciously, I realized that among my wife, Jeannette's many, galactically fine qualities, was her ability to remember details with exquisite exactitude. And she had the navigational capabilities of a pidgeon. I've often said that I could drop her in the middle of Antartica, without food, water, clothing, and firemaking stuff, and she'd be back home perfectly fine within a week.
We'd could go places, and instantly, she'd remember the way in detail, including all the routes, sub routes, left turns, right turns, and straightaways, you name it. This has never ceased to impress and leave me, the navigationally challenged half of our team, in awe.
Over time, she grew understandably tired with my where's-my questions, and one morning, abruptly brought it to a halt. Well, mostly. One morning, as I rushed to get to work, I was in a dither and asked her where my wallet was. I'd forgotten that I'd laid it down the night before on an end table in the living room.
No response. I asked again. Again, no response. Then, the words came forth from her like some Delphic Oracle speaking to me. "The womb," she said, "is not a homing device."
I bristled, but knew in my heart of hearts, that my "where's my" questions would henceforth fall on deaf ears.
Am I totally free today, of the "where's my" habit? Honestly, no. But I've known for years that this kind of question is for true emergencies, and only after I've spent time hunting down my lost items myself.
Hank
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