I'm a loser, baby

If memory serves me correctly, this story is true.

I was a mere yute hitting golf balls in an open field at a summer family reunion.  It was a good activity to do between fetching beers from the kegs for the adults and learning racial slurs and epithets that my parents would then have to remind me not to repeat when they sat me down for my post-reunion debriefing.  Anyways, I'm hacking away at the handful of balls I'd been entrusted with, probably scuffed, chewed and sliced up beyond the point they should be used for real golf.  I'd lose one ball in some tall grass, hook one into the woods, and continue doing so until I had no balls left.

"Dad, I lost all the balls."

"No, you didn't.  You didn't lose anything.  You just didn't look hard enough."

That phrase has scarred me for life.  I can't stand losing things.  Losing an object (which is matter and can not be truly destroyed) equals complete abject failure.  Sometimes it's just petty, insignificant things.  Sometimes, it's really important sh__.  They're all treated with equal weight and respect for the situation that I myself have created.

Fast forward oh so many decades. 

This past Saturday, Turd (Todd?  TP?  dunno know his real name) sent me a text at 7:02AM to let me know that he was on his way to scoop me up for a trip to the WNC.  I was not expecting his text so early, as Turd Time is very close to Dr Mike Time, which while being late according to Dick Time, it at least tends to be predictable.  This then sent me into scramble mode, as I had yet to have finish my coffee, enjoy a bountiful morning constitutional, or pack my messenger bag with gear.   By "pack," I mean grab the many assorted clothing options, knee pads, helmet, shoes, data acquisition device, mountain pizza, and what have you that I strewn all over the floor the night before.  I refuse to put it in the bag until the last moment or even stick them in tidy piles because I need to see each and every one of these items at the last possible moment before walking out the door so that I know they exist in space and time.  This will not stop me from wanting to touch my shoes and helmet one last time whilst in the car because they might have magically vanished, fallen out on walk out from my front door, or teleported to another dimension.  The last thing I meant to grab was my money clip, which should be on the shitty end table The Pie bought in 1991.  

It was not there (the money, not the shitty end table that was most certainly there).

Turd was well on his way, and the clock was ticking, and my teeth weren't brushed yet and... I went into full berserker mode.  Mantle, dresser, kitchen, dining room... look out the window.  Turd's here.  Dammit.  The trail is hot.  My memory of last night's events are as fresh as they ever will be.  The Pie is asleep.  The mountains are calling.  I reluctantly hop in the car physically, but my mind is scouring every nook and cranny of the house.

Turd and I talked as we scooted down the highway, but my mind was still back at home.  The Pie finally woke up and started texting me back right about the same time that I lost cell signal.  All I could confirm is that she couldn't find it, and there were no charges on the card that we didn't make.  I was confident that it traveled home the night before, as I did my usual anal-compulsive loading of my sling bag before I left work.  I could solidly remember picking my Pandora channel before tucking my phone away next to my money clip, zipping the pocket shut, checking the zipper on the elevator, and once again as I unlocked my bike.

I probably had a few back-to-back minutes on the ride when I totally forgot my conundrum, but they were few and far between.  When I got home, The Pie and her outta town friend Deb were about to go walk over to Brawley's to get a beer, but I couldn't join them until I found my precious.

Flashback to walking in the door Friday evening.

I was planning on cooking, but The Pie was already eating, so... I grab my running shoes and head out the door for a run.  Yeth, I'm running again.  Anything to avoid getting the trainer back outta the closet.  Running might be stupid, but how can I resist heading out to the greenway in the dark and shuffling past the super-effervescent-this-time-of-year poop plant?   Run, shower, cook dinner (anyways), gather my cold weather riding gear and uncover my Honda Fit of Rage and make it accessible because I thought I was driving.  I do the latter of these activities intermittently between sets of my old man exercises while watching Seth Meyers Correction Corner on YouTube.  I was admittedly trying to do too much all at once, and I can remember at one point having three very dissimilar objects in my hand at the same time and thinking, "this is not a good idea."

So, check under all the furniture, inside every cupboard that I opened while cooking (is mushrooms, Brussel sprouts, and onions a "meal?"), inside the folded up car cover and the closet where I keep it, inside the Honda Fit of Rage (and next to it), the kitchen and bathroom garbage (all the way to the bottom), tip the recycle bin over and crawl inside wearing a headlamp, flip pillows and cushions, on top of the fridge... I'm grasping at all the straws.  I have not looked hard enough yet.  That's what my dad woulda said, anyways.

Go into The Pie's office... did I even go in here?

Well, that is where the bike I decided to ride lives, so start looking in the dumbest of places.  I didn't feed the dog, but mebbe it's in the bag?  Nope.  Obvs.

Then something strikes me.  The bag of random computer cables that I've been too lazy to run back up to the attic isn't sitting in plain view next to the giant filing cabinet anymore.  I know I didn't up and get motivated... but I did pick it up and hide it from where our out-of-town guest wouldn't be subjected to the horror of my apathy in physical form.  Look down in its new hiding spot.... and of course my money clip is in the bag of cables.  Of course.

I don't think this story really has a point.  

Never give up on your dreams... even if it's just finding something.