Lost Keys

If I had back all the time in my life I’ve spent looking for my keys, I’d be ten years younger, at least. (Of course, I’d be sleeping outside in the yard, but that’s beside the point.)

I don’t exactly know how it happens, but I consistently fail to leave them in their designated spot, even though I consistently admonish myself to do so—and even when I’m perfectly sober.

This morning, for instance, I strolled around the house for at least half an hour on the prowl for my key ring, which I’d somehow failed to hang on the little hook it’s intended to reside upon.

My search technique tends to be sporadic; I don’t like to admit to myself that the keys aren't where they’re supposed to be, so unless it reaches a real crisis point—like I need to unlock my bike right now—I sort of amble about, hoping the missing items will reveal themselves to me on their own.

I go through the requisite seven stages of loss as it gets increasingly dire:

Shock: “What? No keys! No way!”
Denial: “Oh, my keys aren’t really lost; they’re right around here somewhere.”
Bargaining: “Please, just let me find them this one time; I’ll never misplace them again.”
Guilt: “How could I be so stupid to lose my keys? I don’t deserve to have locks!”
Anger: “Fucking keys! I hate them!”
Depression: “Life without keys is not worth living.”
Acceptance: “Screw it. I’ll just leave the door unlocked.”

Typically, I find the damn things immediately after I give up looking for them. But I have to really give up; I can’t pretend to have thrown in the towel for strategic purposes.

Today, I really did give up. The only key that’s really a problem would my office I won’t need it for three months.

Lo and behold, though, as soon as I thought that, there they were, hidden on my workbench under some wrenches.