I’m moving.
Not because I want to, necessarily, but because I’ve finally accepted an uncomfortable truth: with me getting a little bit longer in the tooth, each day I’m learning that where I am now is not where I need to be.
I need to be somewhere else. But not just anywhere else. A specific somewhere. I need to move to that magical, mystical place called “Around Here Somewhere.”
You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. It’s that enchanted kingdom where all my best possessions have already relocated without consulting me first. My reading glasses made the move last Tuesday—just vanished mid-email. The good scissors, the ones that actually cut things instead of just mauling Amazon boxes into submission like their dollar-store cousins, packed their bags months ago. And that blessed pair of underpants without the holes in them? Gone. Presumably living their best life in Around Here Somewhere while I’m stuck with their Swiss relatives. My book of stamps immigrated there some time around the Clinton administration.
My phone charger is a frequent commuter between here and there, apparently maintaining dual residency. The TV remote has established permanent citizenship—I’ve given up entirely and now change channels by standing up and pressing buttons like some kind of Neolithic cave dweller. That pen that writes smoothly without requiring the sacrificial blood of three goats and a firm shake? Around Here Somewhere, naturally.
My left slipper visits so often it should pay rent there. The can opener disappears right when I’m staring at a can of corn like it’s a puzzle box designed by a sadistic engineer. And don’t even get me started on a belt that fits—I’m convinced Around Here Somewhere has an entire leather shop operating there.
The real estate market in Around Here Somewhere must be booming, because apparently everything I own is trying to flip properties there. My car keys are serial relocators—they’ve lived in more places than a military brat. The jacket I wore yesterday, the one with my wallet in the pocket? Evaporated. I stood in my closet this morning staring at seven jackets I don’t remember buying, none of them the right one, all of them apparently impostors sent to mock me.
The good Tupperware lids—and I cannot stress this enough—have formed their own separatist movement. They’re staging a revolt against matching with their containers. I have 17 bottoms and three lids, none of which correspond to each other.
Yesterday I spent 20 minutes looking for my Yeti lid. My Yeti lid! The one I use every single day, that is the ONLY lid that fits my Yeti. I am graced, however, with 14 other lids all of which millimeters too big or too small.
Let’s talk about the socks. I’m convinced there’s a portal in my dryer that leads directly to Around Here Somewhere, and it only accepts left socks. Or right socks. Whichever one would leave me with the most useless collection. I now own approximately 47 orphaned socks, each one a bereaved singleton mourning its partner. I’ve considered just wearing mismatched socks as a fashion statement, but I’m pretty sure that only works if you’re under 25 or a tech billionaire, and I’m neither.
The real kicker is that I know—I KNOW—that the moment I buy replacements, the originals will return. It’s like they’re watching. Waiting. The instant I purchase new reading glasses, the old ones will materialize on the coffee table, looking smug. Buy new scissors, and the good ones will appear in the junk drawer, nestled between takeout menus from 2019 and batteries of unknown charge.
So yes, I’m moving to Around Here Somewhere. I’ll probably arrive and discover there are none of my things there and that I’ll quickly need to move again to a new place at “Right Where I Left It.”
(Follow Chris Kamler’s world on Twitter as @chriskamler)
