I have a tendency to flail my hands about when I tell a story. I have knocked over more than one drink at a bar while beguiling drinking buddies with my exploits and adventures.
Friday morning I ate a healthy breakfast of strawberry frosted mini-wheats, took a shower, and proceeded to get dressed. I walked over to my dresser and pulled out a fresh pair of underpants, orange striped underpants to be a bit more specific. I fully intended to put them on right away, but on my way back over to the other side of the room I stopped to tell Mark, who was still laying in bed, a very humorous story involving our neighbor's dog, a cat, and what happens when a squirrel intervenes. I stood at the foot of the bed, my arms waving around, relating every detail of this most interesting story. When I was done and I was satisfied with Mark's reaction, I continued on over to the closet side of the bedroom to put on my underpants. Except that I had a problem, I couldn't find my underpants. They had been in my hand when I had started the story, but now they were gone. Evaporated, disappeared, vanished, like some kind of magic trick, I had made my underpants go away. Surely they must be on the floor or very nearby the end of the bed, so I started looking for my orange striped underpants. It is now Monday morning and I still cannot find my underpants. I have looked everywhere including in other rooms. Either I have the gift of magic, or maybe one of my dogs took off with them when they went flying, or I could just possibly be going insane.