The other day I spent most of my time out of the office, on the road. I was out for about 5 hours, driving around town, talking to people, dropping off and exchanging information with several people and agencies. All day I was reaching in and out of my bag, giving out flyers, and at some points I took out a notebook I carry, to job something down, or leave notes for my contacts who aren't in their offices when I drop by. I left a few notes, gave someone some directions, gave someone the name and number of a referral, and dropped off materials in 12 different places. It was a beautiful sunny day and I was feeling good.
My notebook is a funny, ever evolving book I keep with me at all times. In this book I jot down any observations, thought, grocery lists, list of things to do, directions, phone numbers and email addresses, incomplete number sequences, and bad drawings. I had no idea it was even missing until after I got back to the office and checked my voicemails. After a series of mumbling messages leaving mundane requests, a bold, crisp and clear message came from a woman who worked as a receptionist at a mental health treatment facility asking me if I lost a notebook, and proceeded to describe it. I panicked; my heart jumped into my throat, and my palms started to get really sweaty. I rifled through my briefcase, and alas! The notebook in question was missing. I was both relieved that someone found it, but freaked out that they’d read it and think I’m mental.
After a lengthy game of phone tag, I finally spoke with the woman who found my book. I thanked her, and coordinated a time when I could come by and pick it up. We both had pretty busy schedules, so the next time we could meet was the following morning about 9 AM. I offered to go by her office, which was on the opposite side of town, and my route took me on a nice ride behind the airport. It was a nice day, and the airport is right on the river, surrounded by nature preserves. I was a little nervous about meeting her; she ended up holding onto my book for about 24 hours or so, and even though she denied reading it, I know she had to have. My only consolation is that my handwriting may be undecipherable in some parts of the book.