When I was younger, my mom used to hide all of our birthday presents in this fat old black pipe stove she had restored. She put them in the oven until the morning of that day, and then she’d bring them out like a fresh-baked cake or souffle. Even after I had long since discovered their hiding spot, I was still so excited to see those bright gifts pulled out from the cold oven’s door. Baking and rising in my mind, I couldn’t wait for the surprise. Surprises are the best part of being a kid, but also an easy way for parents to get children to mind. “You’d better watch out, you’d better not cry…”
I used to have a boyfriend I would do this to in a smaller way. On small scraps of paper torn from receipts, a printed page or a handy notebook, I would write lyrics on them and then place them in the pockets of his old jeans lying on the floor, or in his allergy medicines, sometimes in the tea. The words weren’t my own, but the sentiment was. For the longest time, it was hard for me to tell him I liked him without using a British accent. He was my first love, and you have to use caution going into those vulnerable situations. Real feelings incognito is the best way to delve into any sticky situation. These notes were a part of that. Jeff Tweedy, Elvis Costello, Jeff Buckley, that Lewis girl: they spoke my heart long before I had one. The first time he got one, he had pulled it out of his wallet at the grocery store. He called me right after and asked if it was me in my unmistakable handwriting who did it. My plaigiarism was adorable. These little leaflets were flying out of my own back pocket. I noticed this one day while walking along the street. I’d left two in my path, too late to backtrack. I couldn’t take them back, even if I wanted to. They blew away. Fell prey to seeing eyes. That boy didn’t stay. No number of surreptitious notes and hidden gifts would keep him. When we broke up, there were still notes waiting to be found. He had to have known. I always wondered how he dealt with the coming surprise.
Now that I’m all alone, I find myself inspired to hide again. Perhaps I am conspiring against myself and my desire to quit smoking, but I really enjoy it when I find a cigarette. A couple of weeks ago, I bought a pack, took all of the cigarettes out one by one, and found a hiding spot for each. A merry little grandmother, I skipped around my usual haunts, giving them a little mystery. I try to do it quickly, while I get ready to go to work or run an errand so that I was less likely to remember the spot of each one. I bought some plastic baggies. I thought it would be fun to hide them in restaurants and stores I like, too. I don’t know how successful my quitting smoking is, although I do it less because I can’t always find a smoke. In some ways, my want to smoke turns into me actually doing something else with my life. It’s like I’m using my addictions creatively against my hibernation-oriented, seasonally affective side. Those early moments of desperation found me digging around in my car, immediately finding the ones in the passenger visor or crammed in a British literature anthology. However, despite the predictability of some smokes, I am still surprising myself. A pack of cigarettes goes longer and has more when you spread them out, as opposed to when you keep them clammed together. I can’t even couch potato. I’ve got to find a cigarette. I will clean my apartment, go through old clothes to sell, organize my shoes, turn my socks right side out – anything! – just to find one sometimes. I’ve been putting them in my plant to remember to water it. The fridge has next to no food; it is rarely opened. Imagine my surprise at finding a little Camel just waiting for me atop the last slice of cheese. A signal, I had a smoke and a cheese sandwich. I found one in a DVD and watched it. Under insurance papers at work (mail those). Inside an unused file at the coffee shop (cleaned that shelf). I can’t wait to read the books I hid them in (motivation to read the copious literature I already own). I know they are in coat pockets and clean clothes, so I wear something different each day. New outfits can make you feel pretty again. The sensation of knowing something is there, waiting for you, is so exciting. The outcome is tangible. The search is never easy, but it gets stuff done. A lot of times, a find just happens. I find it mesmerizing how I am training myself behaviorally. My apartment is a nouveau kind of Skinner box.
I suppose we all need the training.
It was just discovered that bikes and walking are bad for the environment!
Let's have a mind and raise flowers. 