The still-full basket of half folded laundry has been sitting on top of the dining room table for the last six hours or so. I run past it on the way down the stairs to the basement to retrieve my music folder. I already have my jacket on. I don’t know why I’m rushing; I’m not late. I’m sure that I’ve left my phone up on the second floor. Actually, no, I’m not sure where my phone is. I probably have it in my purse.
It’s a wonder that anyone thinks of me as organized, but I’ve been thus accused. Perhaps it’s because I know exactly where my music folder is, although I did just almost leave for rehearsal without it.
I’ve made a mental list of everything I plan to go over with my accompanist today. I haven’t written it down. I have a similar mental list of everything I plan to go over with another accompanist a week from today. This time, perhaps I will write it down, and keep the page in my folder. I have another rehearsal planned for two weeks from now. I’ve already written down what we’ll go over and in what order.
I don’t remember the accompanist’s address, but I know where he lives so I guess it’s okay. My phone is not in my purse, so I ring the doorbell instead. That’s what doorbells are there for: disorganized people like me who can’t keep track of their cell phones.
I finish folding the laundry when I come back.