Finding the key to life? Uh, no
These beautiful fall days make me pine for the bike trail. On Wednesday, I arrived at the bike path, pulled into a spot and began the routine of getting ready. It’s a multi-layered process with many steps. Lady Gaga takes less time getting dressed for a concert.
Take bike off rack. Get water bottle from front seat. Get iPod from purse (I know, I know. But I only use one earphone and turn it down low). Put iPod in waterproof holder on handlebars and turn it on. Put asthma rescue inhaler in pocket. Lock car. Put keys in zippered pouch under bike seat.
Walk bike across street to restroom. Go in, come out. Begin ride.
What’s that? Wind in my hair? I’d forgotten my helmet.
So, I walk the bike back to the car, get the keys from the pouch, unlock car, open back door and grab helmet. While I am doing this, the following thoughts are competing for front brain space:
1. Is it time to get a new helmet?
2. Should I grab a Kleenex in case I sneeze?
3. Did I turn off the stove after breakfast?
4. Did I get my inhaler?
5. Should I go to the bathroom one more time?
6. I’d better make sure I don’t lock my keys in here.
7. I hope those people who just walked behind me realize these are padded shorts and my rear end isn’t really shaped like that.
Standing in the open car door, I clipped the helmet on, patted my shorts for the inhaler, hit the lock on the door and closed it.
The keys were on the back seat, where I’d tossed them when I picked up the helmet.
Had I not just reminded myself about locking my keys in the car? First I was stunned, and then I giggled at my stupidity. And then denial set it.
I pulled at the door handle a few times, then walked around the car and pulled at the other three doors and also checked the trunk. I was stranded, no phone, no money.
The sane thing would have been to find a phone and call for help. But I, being either momentarily irrational or, as I prefer to think of it, ever hopeful, decided maybe the car wasn’t really all that locked up. And so I spent another minute trying all the doors, wandering around the car looking at it, and even banging on a window – not out of frustration but in the goofy hope that I’d also locked a tiny individual in the back seat who could open the door.
Eventually realizing I was pretty much screwed, I rode my bike to a nearby business, which kindly let me use the phone to call a locksmith.
Fifty bucks and an hour later, I was back in my car.
In thinking about this column, I felt a need to use the experience of locking one’s keys in the car as a metaphor for some of life’s larger realities. Maybe, how even when we know something is ruined, or over, or broken, we don’t want to accept it, and we try to make things right again. We’ve all been in such a spot, with the smart part of our brain knowing truth while the other part keeps hoping.
Nah, that would be stretch.
There was no big metaphorical lesson yesterday at the bike trail. It was an hour lost to my own absent-mindedness and impatience; an hour I’ll never get back. Stupid key, stupid me.
Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.