The distressed look

Just the other day I was griping that my briefcase looks out of place in my shiny new office, and apparently someone agreed because now it's gone. The briefcase, not the office.

I hesitate to use the word "stolen" because it's entirely possible that it was taken accidentally. After all, it did look rather distressed, and I did leave it sitting not far from my trash can; someone could easily have mistaken it for a piece of trash. But it isn't. That briefcase was a graduation gift from me to myself: I bought it to celebrate finally completing the Ph.D. It didn't look new even when it was new, but that was fine with me--I like the distressed look. You might even say I embody the distressed look.

But now I'm even more distressed because it's gone. I notified campus police and a friendly officer paid a prompt visit to my office and asked a lot of questions, including questions about my height and weight (!) and eye color, which made me want to point out that I am the victim here. How will knowing my weight help them finger the perp? I told my daughter about this and she informed me that she had to answer the same questions recently when she reported that her car had been clobbered in a college parking lot, but they also asked for her father's hair color. Apparently "father's hair color" is considered important data in a hit-and-run but not in a missing briefcase incident.

I suppose I should be grateful there was nothing of any value in the briefcase: a legal pad, some makeup, maybe a few pens, nothing I can't live without. I do, however, need a briefcase. Should I go ahead and shop for a new one or wait and see whether that vital information about my weight leads inexorably to the apprehension of the guilty party? For now, I'll just practice being distressed.