Christmas in New England is idyllic: the glittering mounds of pure white snow, the horse-drawn carriage rides in the country, the holiday cocktail parties with old friends...

This past Christmas was shaping up to be the best ever. I'd just moved into a gorgeous two-bedroom apartment in Boston with my boyfriend of two years. It was the perfect space: far enough from the center of town to seem important and upscale, but close enough to the hustle and bustle of Government Center for the both of us to get to work easily. We had a fireplace, a new kitten, and something that every Bostonian couple searches for but can never find: closet space.

Let me preface this by saying that I am not a natural urbanite. I come from a small Massachusetts town about roughly 1800 people that is afflicted by a feral goose problem.

Let me repeat that.

A. Feral. Goose. Problem.

You can't get much more backwater than that.

But during college I met my boyfriend, who has lived his entire life in Cambridge and is smart, funny, sophisticated, well-mannered, spontaneous, attentive, affectionate, and even perfectly capable of picking out his own clothes and looking fabulous in them. Also, my family hasn't scared him away yet, so I consider him a keeper.

Unfortunately, the poor dear has the memory of a fruit fly. He always calls to mind the part of "The Color Purple" where Mister keeps having to run back into his bedroom because he's forgetting articles of clothing, which Celie is holding up for him. Well, that's us when we're on our way out anywhere. We were on our way to a Christmas party in a chic apartment building downtown with the kind of stylish people that we don't quite fit in with, though God knows, we try. We were supposed to leave at nine; at nine-thirty, I was sitting on the sofa in the living room, wearing a black velvet cocktail dress and shoes I spent half a month's rent on, my hair professionally done and my nails perfect. Since I normally live in my jeans when I'm not at work, I was fidgeting uncomfortably. And where, you ask, was my beloved?

Standing in his closet, looking for his shoes. His suit is neat and pressed and fresh from the cleaner's, hanging in its garment bag. His shirt is freshly ironed, his tie resting on his dresser with his cuff links. And his black wing-tips are nowhere to be found.

For nearly forty-five minutes, we dug around my significant other's immaculately clean closet looking for his shoes. Correction: we looked through all SIX closets in the house. Like I said, we live in one of those rare city spaces with decent storage. (Of course, as a trade-off, we have bright purple subway tile in the bathroom). And after we were done with the closets, we checked in all of the normal places lost things like to hide: under all the furniture, in the bathroom, etc., and even in some strange places, like the freezer, the broiler, and even the toilet tank. We did, however, manage to find an old mandal (man sandal) that he thought he lost in the move.

Also, if there's anything funnier than a twenty-three year-old man skidding on a hardwood floor and accidentally flipping over the back of his sofa, I've yet to discover it. And before you go calling me a mean girlfriend, I made sure he was alright before I laughed at him.

"Honey? This is worse than the time we got to Rhode Island and you realized you drove all the way from Boston to Providence without your wallet."

It was eleven-thirty at night, with the chic party presumably in full swing, before we finally found the missing shoes.

Which were sitting on top of the television.

In the living room.

Right in front of me.

Oops.

Learn more about this author, Malia Estes.
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