No matter how early I start, my chores expand to fill the time available, and before you know it, I have to hurry, or I’ll be late again. Today is no exception.
I rush out, start the car, and begin backing out of the carport, when I realize I forgot my phone. So, I pull back up into the carport, leave the car running, and dash into the house. Where is it?
I look on the table. I look on the desk. I finally find it in the bathroom where I was putting on my makeup earlier. While I’m in the bathroom, I decide, You know, I should probably pee. At this age, why waste an opportunity.
So, I use the bathroom and wash my hands, dry them carefully and pick up my phone. I hurry back out, lock the door, get in my car, and take off. Whew! If I don’t hit any traffic problems, I can still get there right on time. About a mile down the road, I notice a message on my dashboard. It says, “Key fob has left the vehicle.”
Well, that makes sense, because I had to have the key to go back inside the house. But the message should have cleared off after I got back in and started driving. I think.
I start looking around and I don’t see my keys on the seat. Hmmm.
At the next driveway, I pull over and stop. I search the seat, search my purse, search the floor of the car. No keys. I’m getting frantic now, so I search again.
The dashboard message is still showing. By now, I’m talking to myself out loud. “Crap! I’m 2 miles from home. What is the range on this thing? What if the car suddenly quits?” I have no idea how this works.
So, I pull out and drive as fast as I can back toward the house, worried every second that my car is going to die because there’s no key inside it. All the while, the clock on the dashboard is reminding me I have an appointment.
I get back to the house, and of course, the door is locked. I’m afraid to turn the car off because I don’t think it will start again without the key. We have a house key stashed somewhere on the carport for just such occasions.
Somewhere. I finally find it, and it’s in a little plastic box with magnets all over it to keep it securely hidden. Before I can sigh with relief, I discover my next problem. The box will not open. I pound and I pry and I twist and I look for any sort of mechanism to make it open, but it’s no use. I can’t get it open.
I get back in the car, dig through my purse, and find an old credit card. I have, in the past, jimmied a house lock open with a credit card. But that was a long time ago, and it was not this lock. Of course, that doesn’t work. So, I start looking around for a hammer to bust the little plastic box open to get to the spare key.
During the unsuccessful search for a hammer, I notice the time. There is no way I can make my appointment now. I take a deep breath, get in the car and turn off the motor. I retrieve my phone, and call to apologize and reschedule my appointment.
After I hang up, I make one last half-hearted attempt to break into the key box by slamming it down on the concrete floor. It doesn’t open, but it does bounce up and hit me in the shin. I’m sure that’s going to leave a bruise.
Out of options, I rummage in the car and find a magazine I don’t remember reading. I carry the magazine to the porch, take a seat in the swing, and enjoy a few rare unscheduled hours waiting for my husband to come home and rescue me. I may even nap.