The Loss of the Pen

I have a thing about pens. I inherited it, you see.

This one was stolen from a hotel. But it was my favorite for a whole year, and I cherished it deeply. It lived with my favorite notebook – also stolen, but from my boss. Both are nothing fancy – a $5 notebook from Borders, a cheap clicky blue ballpoint pen from the Hotel Monaco. But they were a pair, and the pen was particularly special.

The right weight. A smooth exterior. A soothing color. The ink and pressure were perfect, and with it my words leapt from my mind and ran down my arm, exploding out my fingertips to dance across the pages in front of me. This is a tragedy. A loss. If I were a singer, I’d say my microphone was stolen. A guitarist, my pick. A public speaker, my podium. But I love to write, and the pen was my vehicle.

Worst of all, I know exactly where my pen is. I lent it to a fellow conference-goer so he could write his information down for me. Seeing as this is a professional engagement and it’s expected that I bring home business, I may have realized my mistake but my hands are bound. It’s hardly appropriate for me to march up to this gentleman – this potential buyer – and say, “Hey pal, you have my pen. Give it back.” So my lips are sealed, my heart broken. It is for me – a woman used to doing whatever she wants – a remarkable test of self-control.

Of course, thankfully, my mind works in mysterious ways. There are always loopholes -- alternative paths – to achieve your goal. Someday, I’ll have my pen back. You'll see.