There is one adventurous trip I often take now that I am in my 70s that I did not experience in my younger years. I call it my walk-in closet stroll. My closet is a destination I’ve visited several times each day in previous years for obvious reasons, say, to pick out a pair of pants and shirt I plan to wear or grab my tennis shoes.
Now, on occasion, I enter my closet with determination, ready to get…what? Why did I come in here? I look at my row of dress pants hung neatly on the bar right across from my ironed shirts, both short- and long-sleeved. But, I’m already dressed. I search further on the shelves at the far end where I keep loose change, my baseball glove, socks that have lost their mate, a beer mug I saved from a fraternity party back in 1964. The floor has several pairs of slippers, a little wastebasket, two ties that slipped off the tie rack above.
There is nothing I can spot that gives me a hint as to why I entered. I stroll around the 10 foot expanse.
As I exit I grab a wrapped piece of spearmint candy I had depocketed and put on a shelf six months ago.
Ahh, that must be why I came in here.