When you’re retired, weekends are not very different from weekdays.

Maybe I’ll have more options for socializing, Weekend gatherings are more likely to include members of different generations. Maybe I’ll feel more inclined to visit a friend out in the suburbs or make a rare trip to a mall.

Often, I’ll set aside time on Saturday morning to take on a project, like shredding papers (to make room for new ones, most likely), or step up to handle regular cleaning chores that are easily put off during the week.

Breaking out the pungent pine scented cleaners to get down on my knees to take on the bathroom floors — that kind of chore is often left to Saturday, as is dusting, if I run a clean rag over my wood furniture at all.

It’s not that dusting is hard to do. It’s not strenuous or requires special equipment or even much time.

It’s just that the task is always accompanied by a “Why bother?” attitude.  It’s not as if some critical mother-in-law might drop in unexpectedly, don a white glove and brush her extended index finger over a maple or walnut surface, emitting tsk-tsk sounds to point out my shortcomings.

It’s just that shortly after dusting, I see more dust. (Does the act of wiping down wood actually create the tiny floating particles?)

I was determined to dust the other Saturday. I even bought a spray bottle of Orange-Glo, for cleaning and polishing wood furniture.

I wiped my dining room table and credenza but decided to skip the horizontal strips of wood that make up my chairs’ backs. (Like I said, by the time anyone might see the inside of my dining room, two more layers of dust will have formed.)

I ran the remnants of an old cotton tee over my bedroom dresser and approached my night tables, cloth in hand, ready to spray Orange-Glo after I pushed the surfaces‘ contents to one side, the tissue box and three books I haven’t cracked in weeks.

Then, I got a phone call. Then, I took a break from cleaning and started to do some of my daily exercises; wall push-ups and twenty-five minutes on the stationary bike, a very un-Peloton model that still required help to assemble.

But wait…when I was ready again to clear the dead skin cells and hair fibers that claimed my space, I couldn’t find my spray bottle of artificially orange wood cleaner. I had to start a new project — finding where I left the bottle.

I tried to re-trace my steps, literally walking though my home stopping at spots where I might have lingered. I performed a similar process around my mind, asking myself to identify what  I may have been preoccupied with over the past ninety minutes.

Was this new challenge just another “Am I ready for Prevagen” moment?  Was I mentally checked out because I really did not want to dust?  Was I sabotaging my efforts because I subconsciously wanted to demonstrate the “multitasking” fallacy?

It seems that more and more people boast about being a multitasker, which, to me, often is an excuse for starting lots of things and completing none.

I must have walked though my home a dozen times. I opened cabinet doors, I looked at every window sill and moved piles of paper. I looked in places where I might have wandered and places where I couldn’t imagine having stopped.

I thought I was going crazy.  Why couldn’t I figure out where I left the polish within my fourteen hundred square foot domicile?

I laid on my back on the rug in my living room, in front of my TV and wall unit. While no electronics were engaged, I started doing clam shells, pulling a medium tension yoga band around my knees, and slowly pulled my knees apart then back together.

There, on my right, on a middle shelf of my wall unit, between my RBG votive and small plaque, announcing, “Life is short. Play with your dog.” was the spray bottle of cartoon colored furniture polish.

I had to laugh at the seriousness of the search and the unexpected resolution.

Remembering that surrendering, that stepping away from the “search” is often the best route to find what you’re looking for is no small thing.