I woke up early this morning, well before the clock radio went off and before the faux sun clock was glowing even a tiny bit. Instead of going back to sleep as per usual, I got up. I have to leave work early today, so I thought getting in early would be a good idea. All was well until it came time to grab my keys and head out the door—no keys. They were not where they were supposed to be. They were not in any of the likely places I might have put or dropped them instead. They were not in Mr. Karen’s coat pocket—not that there was any reason they would be, but once before when I was missing a set of keys that’s where I found them so I figured why not look just in case. At this point I was hating myself for being careless and looking for them in places that made no sense at all—the pantry, the refrigerator, the drawers of my craft cabinet—but I was desperate. Finally, after wasting a half hour, I left with Mr. Karen’s keys for my car. At least I still had my office keys; I keep those on a separate ring and they were in my purse where they were supposed to be.
As I drove to work, I mentally retraced my steps when I came home the night before. Pulled the car into the driveway; I had the keys then. Left the car running and got out to open the garage; I still had them. Pulled into the garage and turned off the car; had them. But then what? Did I close the garage door first and then go inside? Or go inside and drop my bags and then go back and close the garage door? All I knew for sure was I hadn’t needed my keys to open the door to the house, since Mr. Karen was already home and had unlocked it. In the midst of my musings, my cellphone rang. The screen said it was Home calling, so I answered. Mr. Karen said he’d found my keys—in the trash. I’d thrown away my keys. Brilliant. I do vaguely recall tossing some garbage I’d grabbed from the car, but how could I not notice my keys going in, too? They’re on a bright red key chain, for crying out loud. I hate it when I’m careless like that.
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