Despite the many scientific advances of our modern age, even science can’t explain a few things in this world. The Bermuda Triangle. Crop circles. Why does the printer jam only when you’re in a hurry? And perhaps the greatest enigma of all: what happens to all the matching Tupperware lids?

Remember the television series “Unsolved Mysteries?” I’ve got the ultimate mystery no one can solve. I’m serious. At this point, I’m convinced there’s a portal to another dimension in my kitchen cabinet. I open the door and am met with an avalanche of plastic containers and lids, but not a single pairing that goes together. I’ve tried organizing. I’ve tried matching lids and containers before storing them together. I’ve even tried the “just use foil and pretend it’s fine” method. It’s not fine—foil leaks. Ask my car’s passenger seat.

Some people say socks disappear in the dryer. At least socks come in pairs, and you have a fighting chance of finding the missing one someday. But these lids? They vanish like witnesses in mob movies. One minute they’re here, the next—they’ve entered the witness protection program under the name “Microwave-safe Lid #237” and are living their best life in someone else’s house.

And don’t get me started on the fake lids. You know the ones: they almost fit, but not quite. They were probably manufactured for a container that was discontinued in 2004 (and that disappeared from my kitchen in 2005), and now they’re just haunting me with their smug little curves that almost snap on, then pop off with a wet, mocking noise. But I can’t throw them out. I might find the container that matches them someday. (Yeah, and I might win the Lottery.)

It gets worse when company comes over. “Do you have something I can take this home in?” they ask. Of course. I frantically paw through the mismatched mess of plastic in search of my one good container—the one with the lid that actually fits, seals, and doesn’t leak. I don’t want people judging me for being disorganized with my plasticware, even though I know I will never see that container again. That container is now theirs. I consider it a minor sacrifice to maintain my façade of hospitality and organization.

And yet, like a fool, I keep buying more. There’s always that moment at the store when I think, “This will be the set that changes everything.” A whole, beautiful, new box of matching containers and lids, each one snapping into place with satisfying precision. For about a week. Then one lid disappears. Then another. And before I know it, I’m back to storing leftovers in a Cool Whip tub, provided I can find the lid.

At this point, I’ve accepted that I’m not Martha Stewart, and I’ll never win the battle of matching Tupperware containers. Not that she would stoop to storing leftovers in something so . . . common.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go look for the socks that came through the laundry cycle without their mates. Wish me luck.