The other day I took the children on a walking adventure. Basically, summer is hard and I thought that talking them on a long walk to go to the store (where I needed to pick up my medication) and back home would not only accomplish an errand but also take up time and wear them out.
So we went.
The walk there was wonderful. We went on an ABC scavenger hunt and made it to the store without much fuss. Shopping with the kids was so-so but we managed to get my husband some supplies for his gross feet and toenails, including a foot spray that I thought would be helpful. These foot supplies are not cheap, I found out. I mean, cheaper than going to the doctor, but still. Pricey. With my various purchases in my bag, we headed out the door and decided to walk back via some vintage/antique stores that are on the same road.
We walked down the road, across the street, browsed one store, went into the bathroom for my daughter to go pee, walked down the road, across the street again, into another store, across the road a few more times, into a magic store, back down another road and home.
When we were almost home, I realized that there was a slit or two in my plastic bag, most likely caused by the spray handle of the stain remover I had purchased. And then I realized the can of foot spray was missing.
At first I was mad because I spent over ten dollars on this can of foot spray. What a waste of money. Dang it. And then the OCD invited itself to the party. Instead of just being mad at money lost, I began to wonder where I lost the can. Did it fall out in the road somewhere, where it could potentially cause an accident or damage to someone’s car? Did it hit something when it fell? What if I dropped it in one of the stores and it cracked some old antique vase or glass or something? I would be responsible to pay for that, but I didn’t even know if it had actually happened.
So, instead of letting it be, I made our family go out on a bike ride after lunch in order to retrace our route. I looked for that can of foot spray (I mean, really, couldn’t it be something less embarrassing than athlete’s foot spray?!) on the side of the road, on the sidewalks, etc. I went back into the magic shop and asked the guy working if he had seen it. Embarrassing. But no luck.
The next morning, I took the children back on another walk. We revisited the antique/vintage stores. At the first store, I explained the situation and they let me wander around, even giving me the bathroom key to check there. They also recommended I bleach my husband’s socks to see if that would help his feet, so that was nice advice. But again, no luck.
I went to another vintage clothing store just because and got two dresses, so that was awesome. And then I looked in the final store. Again, nothing.
WWBD (What would Bob do?)
At this point, I gave up. I also entertained the idea that maybe they forgot to put the spray in my bag at the store initially after ringing me up. But I decided it was time to let go and hope that someone else found that foot spray who needed it even more than my poor husband. At least the nail stuff didn’t fall out of the bag too. Hopefully we can solve one foot problem, if both are out of our reach.
Maybe I should have let it go at the beginning of the ordeal rather than searching for it and worrying over the course of two days, but at least I got some new clothes out of the deal, right? Ah, OCD life.