Saturday, March 03, 2012

St. Anthony, the patron saint of saving my ass...

My grandmother was Catholic and spent a lot of her time trying to encourage me to branch out beyond my Lutheran roots and join her in Catholic-town.  It never worked, but along the way she introduced me to some of the more magical, impressive aspects of of which is St. Anthony, the Patron Saint of Lost Things.  Every time I lost anything, from a sticker to a 10-spot, Grandma's answer was "Say a prayer to St. Anthony."  And I would roll my eyes and declare my treasure dead and gone.  But, secretly, I would think "Hey, St. Anthony, could ya help out?"  And lo and behold, my item would appear.

I don't know why, but it doesn't always occur to me to ask St. Anthony for help. Every time I do, though, it results in a win.  This morning I grabbed all my yoga stuff on my way out the door for a MUCH needed class after The Week of No Yoga.  I did my final inventory as I got into the car:  clothes, check; mat, check; post-yoga clothes, check; water, check; heart rate monitor watch, check; HRM strap, check;  HRM transmitter, check....waiiiit.  No check.  No transmitter.  I went back into the house and stared at the empty counter.  Wandered around the house even though I knew that I had dropped all of my HRM stuff on the counter.  Went to look in the car.  Under the seats.  Drove to yoga in a mild panic.  Checked out the price of new HRM transmitters while waiting for class to start.  Panic increased.  Those things are $70!! Why wasn't I more careful?? (The HRM transmitter, in case you're unfamiliar, is about the size of 2 postage stamps put together.  It's its job to get lost.)  I called the studio where I taught last night, the last place I knew it was attached to my body.  It wasn't there.  Finally, class was starting, and I thought "Please, St. Anthony, please find my transmitter."

After class I went to the studio I taught at last night and turned it upside down.  Nothing.
Crawled around on the floor of the car.  Nothing.
Walked into the house, checked around the kitchen, living room and dining room.  Nothing.

I looked at my spring jacket hanging on the coat hook and, since I couldn't remember which jacket I wore last night (short term memory loss anyone?), checked the pockets.  SUCCESS!! There it was.

One day when I was a little older, a teenager (and therefore smarter than everyone), I asked my grandma if the reason "praying" to St. Anthony worked was because the distraction of doing so freed up your mind and your panic to actually sensibly look for your item.  She smiled and said "I don't think so, but you can believe what you want."

I'm still not a Catholic, but the comfort of knowing that, when I lose something, I can ask someone else to look for awhile while I ground myself in a yoga class....that's worth believing in.

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