I know, I know— it’s been like two... maybe three... months. I apologize. I’m seriously trying to graduate and was a significant member in the small staff that produces a 300 page book. Yearbook I mean, and if anything could go wrong— it did. But that’s over now, so I have time for myself.

I would like to share an experience with you that happened to me over the weekend. No, it’s not the experience I had when I accidently pissed in a men’s bathroom (although, that first-time experience is probably way more interesting than what I am about to tell you). This experience is close to my heart, because it affected me WAY more than I thought it would.

I thought I lost my camera.

Now this may not seem significant to you, but it was to me and I had no idea it would affect me as strongly as it did. I’ve been having my digital camera since the fall semester of my sophomore year. That’s two years. It has been with me everywhere, my purse companion through the ups and downs of life.

It’s been with me through the woo-stage of my boyfriend and my relationship, Phoenix, St. Louis, New York City, Washington D.C., Dam Runs, lunches with friends, park playtime, Student Media Shin-digs, etc. That’s a lot.

Her name is Black Betty, b/c I like the song and she’s black (and because I like to name things after Rock n Roll songs, except for Phoenix). She fits perfectly in my purse. Her “trashcan” button doesn’t work and the battery door doesn’t stay closed all the time because Phoenix chewed on her. The strap on her corner is actually broken and held together by a huge glob of super-glue. She’s special.

And this weekend, I thought I’d lost her.

It was strange of me not to have Black Betty with me, especially when I went to Lafayette to see Jeff Dunham in the Cajun Dome. That seems like a moment I should have had her with me. So I figured I’d left her at my house, but I couldn’t find her when I got back here.

I have moments when I think I lose things where I don’t look too-too hard in the fear that I’ve really lost it. I did that for like 3 months when I lost my Minnie Mouse watch until I finally concluded that I lost her. Luckily I found her like 6 months later.

So I just glanced around my room and living room and bathroom and car... But I had this gut feeling that she was gone. I even called the bowling alley where I bowled a 103 (oh yea, 103... 3rd game, but w/e) last Friday, thinking maybe I left her there. But no.

So I had a panic-y feeling in my stomach Tuesday and Wednesday when I’d think of my camera. I still had pictures on her that I wanted to post on here (which I will, I promise). I still had pictures from Gavin’s last marching band performance... So much... All gone.

But then a friend told me she’d seen my camera in the newsroom... And it all came rushing back. I’d left it in there on Friday, after proofing the book. I had her out of my purse to put a picture on the server. Yes, I suddenly remembered.

It’s strange, the sense of relief that washes over a person when he or she finds something they thought was lost. Even more significant is the feeling of relief that washes over a person when he or she finds something that MEANS A LOT to them that they thought was lost.

It somewhat shocked me how much emotion I attached to my camera. I really didn’t think my camera meant that much to me. It’s kind of like the pinky ring I wear all the time. I always have it with me, and take it for granted most/all of the time. But the few times I’ve lost this ring (twice, and I’ve found it usually 30 minutes after realizing I couldn’t find it), I feel like I can’t breathe.

That just goes to show how much I attach to items. My pinky ring, my Minnie Mouse watch, my camera— I’ve had all of these items for a very long time and therefore have attached significant memories to them.

If my camera had broken, I would have been sad, but not panic-y like I was when I lost it. It breaking is different than me losing it. It would have completed its course, lived and died, if it had broken. But it just suddenly disappearing makes it feel like it was stolen from me— except it’s my fault.

Moral of the story— don’t leave your camera in the newsroom.

No, just kidding. Maybe it should be to recognize the personal attachment you have to items, so you don’t realize it only after it’s gone.

You know, the whole “not realizing how much something means to you until after it’s gone and you can’t have it.” (Insert past experience, either romantic or platonic, here) That.