A Tale of Keys and Patience

At some point last weekend I lost my keys. I dug around in various bags and, even though it was steadily in the 80 degree range for all the days in question, in every single coat pocket. I moved around all the keys in the key drawer; keys to the mailbox and basement, keys to a car that no longer works, keys to Uncle Kenny's house, but there was no key chain received as a high school graduation present, no keys assigned solely to me.

The last time I remember seeing the keys was when Jack and I went to the symphony so I checked with the very nice babysitter; had she seen the keys? Yes, but she was certain she had left them on the table inside the front door. Because she does not know me well enough to know that I frequently loose things, she kindly offered to check her backpack where she did not find my keys.

The ease at which I loose things seems to run in direct proportion to the ease at which Jack looses his patience.

"You have checked your purse?"

"Yes dear, first place I looked."

"You change purses often, you have checked all of these bags?", gesturing to the growing pile of bags in our bedroom, bag confusion attributed to the oddly warm weather.

"I have."

On Monday morning I packed up the black bag that I carried all weekend and Jack nervously handed over his keys, to allow the girls and I to get in the apartment after school. I did not once, not all day, loose his keys.

On Tuesday, another 80 degree day, Jack decided to play golf. He took the train from his office, to school, to pick up his keys, and then took a taxi home to get his clubs. He then took a taxi back to school, to return his keys to me and left from there for the golf course. The girls and I walked home, wandered really, meaning that he arrived home, without keys but with golf bag, before we did.

Later that night Jack decided to find my keys. He looked under the table where the kind babysitter felt she had left them, he too dug through the key drawer, he checked the playroom as the girls occasionally borrow my things, he checked my coat pockets and, as a last resort, re-checked all the bags piled in the corner of our bedroom.

He was successful. He found my keys, at the bottom of the black bag I had carried all weekend, the bag that sat, on Tuesday, in the closet at school while he traipsed back and forth via taxi, to deliver keys to me.

Jack's patience, while easily tried, is rarely fully exhausted.

Image courtesy of Tiffany & Company.