I lost my purse. And my mind.

Wednesday was a horrible day for me. So bad, in fact, that I quit that bitch and went to bed at 7:30. It all started when I lost my purse. 

I had to go buy my nephew a birthday present, then drive to class. I've showered, I'm dressed, makeup on, hair did, let's go! I just need to grab my purse and I'm out. But it's not where I left it. Or where I think I left it. Now, I'm a little (lot) anal retentive about my stuff. I have no more than two to three places where I put things like my keys, phone, PURSE, etc. That way I can find things when I need them. If they are not where they should be, it's because someone has moved them and will soon be on the receiving end of a Hulk-out. 

This isn't some dainty little handbag we're talking about. It's a tote bag with a zipper. And it weighs as much as a newborn. It's kinda hard to miss. 

I look in my usual places. Nada. I had it earlier that morning because I got my keys out of it. Didn't I? Or was that yesterday? I move room to room like a crime scene investigator. Now I'm getting antsy. I call Dan. He's busy at work, but texts me. I ask if he'd seen it before he left the house knowing full well that he can't keep track of his own shit let alone mine. He assures me he hasn't seen it and why am I asking if I know I had it after he left for work? I do the logical thing and start crying. 

By now 30 minutes have passed and I'm balls-deep in an anxiety attack. If you've never had an anxiety attack, I sincerely hope you never do. If you have, you know how horrible they are and are probably considering baking me a batch of cookies (I like peanut butter) to help me feel better. You also know that once it subsides, you are completely exhausted and your day is shot. 

I go look in the car (3 times), in the laundry hampers, under furniture, in furniture, in the trash can (inside and outside ones), the bathtub (twice), the freezer (stranger shit has happened), refrigerator (see previous statement) and even the front yard. It's GONE. I'm a shaking, sobbing, mascara-smeared pile of defeat. I'm about to say screw the birthday party, email my instructors, and go hide under the covers for the rest of the day. But not without one last look. 

I go back to the first of the two or three places it should be - the top of the dryer. I've already looked here several times, so I'm not holding my breath. It's not on top of the freshly folded laundry. It's not under it either. Then something shiny and black catches my eye. Part of my purse is sticking out from the MIDDLE of the stack of freshly folded laundry. Fuck you, Wednesday.