Somewhere, in the Magical World of the Missing, full of lonely socks and gloves, slippery earring backs and hair ties, car keys and library cards, grows a shining stack of water bottles with my DNA on them.
I know this, because I can’t find them in my kitchen when I stumble through all bleary-eyed and cranky during dark morning hours on my way to the gym.
Boot camp cotton mouth has become the bane of my existence, thanks to gremlins and the sticky fingers of my four brazen children, three of whom no longer even live in my house.
I spotted a favorite blue water bottle on stage during an a cappella concert in Madison last month. I saw another rolling around the carpet mat of Chicago-bound vehicle. A plastic green Gatorade bottle showed up after three days on the lam, full of cold, stinky coffee and sticking out of a high school back pack.
I spot my water bottles on Facebook news feeds, peeking out from shelves in college apartments and riding public transportation in New York.
Nalgene, aluminum, Camelbak, flipstraw, stainless steel, I’ve owned and lost them all, mostly to my pilfering progeny.
Lately, I’ve been kicking it old school, with quick slurps from a hallway bubbler.
Thomas Fuller said back in 1732, “We never know the worth of water till the well is dry.”
I won’t pretend to know Mr. Fuller, but I do know the thirst to which he refers.
My water bottle cabinet has become a plastic graveyard, with decapitated flip-tops, straw-less slurpy bottles and a couple of over-sized mugs from Country U.S.A.
I plan to keep it that way, too. Tomorrow, when I buy my pretty new water bottle, I’m hiding it. This family is making me thirsty!
