Ever have one of those senior moments?  You know, looking for sunglasses on top of your head?  Or how about looking for keys whose ring is slipped around your finger and jingling unheard as if to say, "Hey, MORON, we're right here!"

I misplaced a certified letter notification.  In a new dwelling with a post office box, I am unfamiliar with this process.  I am used to the postal truck honking to have me come out and sign for the thing.  

With much going on, the possibilities of what might be coming to me in a certified letter are endless.  Some could be quite benign, others quite malignant.

So last night I was fiddling with the card looking at it.  Seems you *CAN* sign the card and leave it in the mailbox and the letter will then be delivered.  But logic and postal service procedures do not always meet.

I tidied up last night before heading to bed and then arose early to drive to get my daughter and bring her to school.  At that point, I returned home to look for the pink 4X6 card to take to the Post Office.

I could not find it.

Anywhere.

I looked in the pile of tax stuff recently compiled.  I lifted the couch and looked under it.  Checked the laptop I'd moved last night to see if it was there.  Sifted newspapers.  Checked the trash.

Physically and mentally dizzy from this tail chasing exercise, I gave up and headed to the post office without it, figuring I was not the first chuckelhead who'd misplaced the certified letter notification.

I arrived at the post office at 7:56 and sat in my car until 8:00 when it was allegedly to open.  

It was there in the lobby, marking time and jingling change while leaning against the wall that I noticed something in my sandal.  It looked like a tag and the signals from the nerve endings in my feet were now registering in my over active brain.

It was the certified letter notification card that I had shoved into my sandal last night before going to bed so I would remember it in the morning.  Instead, I managed to shove my foot into the sandal in somewhat of a mental coma at 6:40, and did not notice it underneath my foot in said sandal for an hour and twenty minutes. 

How could that not register?  Are the callouses so thick on my paws or is it that my brain is so thick?  Either way, I guess sticking post it notes on my feet as reminders will not be a productive system for keeping myself together as the aging process continues on its inexorable march into oblivion. 

So yet another senior moment comes to the fore.  No harm; no foul.  A few minutes of needless anxiety looking for the damn thing, but now I have another funny story to tell at my own expense.

 Far better to have those, than stories at another's expense, and hence I should be thankful for my own idiocy for giving me new material to add to my monologues.

Which reminds me of the idiom "So many stories; so little time."