I’ve lost my keys

There are many glorious aspects to growing older. For me, the most important one is that it has become easier to put life’s events into their proper perspective. After all, if we dwell too much on some events, we can let them tie us up into knots.

On the other hand, there are some not so glorious aspects about growing older. For those of you in your late 40s like me, I am sure it is easy to rattle off several changes we have experienced since hitting middle age.

However, the one change that is most on my mind right now is my forgetfulness. It is an old cliché, but there are times I think I would forget my head if it was not attached to my body. Here is a recent example:

On a Monday morning, I was about to leave for work, and I reached to pick up my car keys. Unfortunately, they were not on my bedroom dresser where I usually keep them. I was confused about this, but since I was on the verge of being late, I found my spare set and left for the day.

As I backed out of my driveway, I decided the keys had to be in my car. When I got to work, I gave it a thorough search. I got down on my knees and bent my body in ways that would make an Olympic gymnast proud. It’s not easy to search a Ford Focus, you know.

The good news is I found 37 cents, a Buddy Holly compact disc I thought I had lost, and some cough drops likely bought during the Bush administration. Unfortunately, no keys.

At this point, I started retracing my steps from the previous day in my mind. Surely, my keys had to be at one of those places. In the coming days, I revisited every one of them. I stopped by my church and searched the area where I had sat the previous Sunday. No success.

I placed a call to a restaurant I had dined at and nobody had seen them. I retraced my steps in my driveway and my neighborhood. Still, no success.

I am sure at this point some reading this are wondering why I did not give up and get a new pair made. For better or worse, stubbornness is a central ingredient of my personality. It helps sometimes, and it hurts sometimes.

Because of this, I decided to take my search up a notch. Perhaps, I had done something stupid with them without realizing. So, my search took me to places I did not want to go – my garbage cans.

A person has to swallow his pride to prowl through his garbage. I am not just talking about the small cans in my house. I plunged into the large container outside that we all roll to the curb once a week. If nothing else, I gained an appreciation for the amount of waste I produce and my lousy diet. Seriously, I eat way too many Hot Pockets. But, again, no keys.

Finally, I decided to search inside my house again. I had already turned it upside down with no success. No room was safe as I made my sweep, and as much as I would like to write that I found them, I cannot.

I began to think my story was heading toward an unhappy ending until last Sunday morning. I was rummaging through my sock drawer, and down at the bottom were the keys. Why would I put my keys in my sock drawer?

I have no clue. I’m just chalking it up to being 47.