I learned an obscure word recently: all-overish. It describes a vague feeling of unease, somewhere between well and unwell. It’s a beautiful word for a middle feeling on its way to panic, and this morning I was a bit all-overish.
I was getting dressed and idly touched my neck. Something wasn’t right. In a second, my heart rate had cranked to a sprint, a cold sweat forming on my brow and palms. My necklace was missing.
This necklace has much sentimental value. It is the only piece of Indian gold I own. Usually, a woman of my age would have more – it’s seen as something you accrue as you age, beginning as a young adult, or on marriage. But my reputation as a misplacer-of-things means I have not been trusted to own such items.
My family has a point. My record for hanging on to an umbrella is 23 days. Items in pairs (earrings, socks) are my nemesis. The Transport for London lost property office may as well be a museum dedicated to me.
But years ago, my sister saved up to buy me an Indian gold necklace. I saw it as a vote of confidence. When I doubt my ability to manage responsibilities and move through life, this necklace encourages me by virtue of its existence. If I haven’t lost the necklace, I am doing OK with adulthood – even if the house, the pension and baby haven’t appeared.
I didn’t realise any of that until it was gone. Being all-overish shocked me; I never feel emotional about inanimate objects (I can’t, or I would forever be in mourning. RIP USB charger cable number 11).
Luckily, the necklace had just fallen into a shoe, which seems a fitting metaphor for my skills as an adult: misplaced. Strange how you don’t always know what you need to get by – until it’s gone. Temporarily, this time.
