I left my little black book at a cafe today at lunch, and I already have separation anxiety. It’s more than just a little black book. It’s my dayplanner, doodlepad and secret hiding place all rolled into one. It’s important to me.
I know it’s still at the café; I just called, and it’s waiting for me at the counter, stuffed underneath somebody’s forgotten sweater. But I feel strange knowing that it’s within anybody’s reach. It contains most of my plans and whereabouts for the year. There are silly doodles and makeshift fonts on the pages. There are lists and lists of lists. There are even love notes.
I’m sure they’re uninteresting to anyone but me, but I will feel much better when the book is back in my hands and I can slip it safely into my handbag, along with the rest of my life.