By the time I was off the train in the city and walking to work, I'd thought through everything I'd done the evening before when I'd last used my keys. I'm normally extremely consistent with where I put things, so even if I temporarily misplace something, there's a logical reason for where it is, and thinking through my actions will turn it up. But I was having no luck. I'd last used the keys to take out recycling and garbage the previous night, and since my fiancé had come home from work right as I was going out to the garbage room, he'd propped the door open for me, and I specifically remembered not having to use my key to re-enter the apartment. Which meant it was conceivable, however unlikely, that I'd thrown them down the trash chute. A phone call with my fiancé as I walked had me feeling even worse, now thinking about the financial ramifications of the loss, since our building uses an electronic key fob and we'd have to purchase a replacement from them.
So I was feeling pretty lousy, and then I crossed the street with a walk sign. When I was about a quarter of the way across the intersection, a car made a right turn without looking for pedestrian traffic in the crosswalk, heading right towards me, mind elsewhere. At the same time, a bike going straight ran a red light, also crossing into my path.
So there I was in the middle of the intersection, a car heading directly for me, and a bike now realizing his mistake too late, swerving left and right and unsure where to go and shouting, "SORRY!" to me as it looked like he was about to hit me, and maybe the car, and maybe I'd be under both of them. I couldn't go backwards because then I'd for sure be run over by the car, and I couldn't go forwards out of the bike's path because he was swerving so much, trying not to hit the car as much as trying not to hit me, that I felt he'd almost certainly hit me if I went forwards. I held up my hands to him to try to get him to remember he had a brake, but alas, bicyclists in the city usually can't be bothered to brake, because their time is of course far more valuable than anyone else's (or, ya know, than someone else's life). So I had no option but to stand still in the intersection and hope I didn't wind up as a Jessica sandwich with car-and-bike bread. (You see, the common use of this expression always bothers me, because people tend to identify the metaphorical sandwich by the things doing the sandwiching, which is just incorrect sandwich labeling, so I take every opportunity to use the metaphor as a proper sandwich-naming person should. But I digress.)
Fortunately, after the interminable moment passed, the car and bike both avoided me. I turned around, looking after the bike, and, feeling angry and like a true New Yorker, shouted after the bicyclist. (When I recounted this to my mom later, feeling all tough, she asked me what I actually said.... Okay, so maybe I was more like a true Midwesterner with good manners, incensed by the callous actions of someone who didn't care if he killed someone, rather than a true New Yorker. But I'll take pride in that. We've got lots of words that work better than curse words in the Midwest.)
Then I just started crying (which is admittedly probably not like a true New Yorker)... walking along Broadway, crying, slipping my sunglasses over my eyes so no one would see (not that anyone would notice during rush hour in Manhattan). I was having a crummy morning, and I'd been almost killed (and the fact that I'm planning a wedding that's happening in five weeks leaves me in a perpetual state of background high-stress), and it just came out as tears. Plus I hadn't had time for breakfast. Plus I didn't have a water bottle. Or coffee. And I couldn't order coffee with red-crying-face, because even if pedestrians wouldn't notice, a cashier probably would. (Not that my life would really be negatively influenced by a random person I don't know seeing me cry, but that rational thought doesn't actually counteract the human reluctance to let people see us cry.)
Twenty minutes later I was with my team from work, carrying a large duffel bag, walking silently ahead of the rest of the team on the way to the subway... and I realized I wasn't holding the company Metrocard the day's team leader had handed me back at the office (since I was the only one on the team who doesn't own an unlimited monthly Metrocard). Was it in my pocket, someone asked? I had no pockets. Was it in the side of my backpack? Nope. I never, ever walk holding a Metrocard — my Metrocard stays in my wallet until I use it and goes right back in — and I only was today because someone had handed it to me, so I had no logical "usual places" to check. After running all the way back to the office, I had to conclude I had dropped it somewhere and some lucky person now had a free card.
At that point, I told the team I'd already lost my keys and been nearly killed, so I was officially having a bad morning — or a very lucky morning, because I hadn't been killed. Upon hearing that, despite the fact that my morning might have been lucky, they made sure I didn't carry the duffel bag anymore, ignoring my insistence that I wouldn't lose a 20-lb, 3-foot bag (I probably would have, so this was good).
Also, it rained. And we were in the Bronx for the day. A really crowded, not-so-nice part of the Bronx. And the rest of the team didn't want to walk in the rain in the Bronx, so instead we took a very crowded bus in the Bronx, which is... an experience... especially if you have both a backpack and a giant duffel bag (with which I was trusted again by that point).
When I was eventually settled onto the LIRR train home at the end of my work day, I sighed, sat back, and opened the side pocket of my backpack to have my container of raisins (if I'm upset, give me a juice box, carrot sticks, and fruit snacks or raisins, and I'll be in a much better mood. Because I'm a five-year-old).
No raisins. I texted my fiancé, asking him if my raisin box was on the counter in the kitchen. Yep, it was. By this point it was 3pm and I hadn't had breakfast or lunch or coffee or water.
I got home, drank three gallons of water, ate lunch in about two minutes, poured myself some coffee, informed my fiancé that we could most certainly handle the expense of another electronic key fob because I was alive and not run over by a car or a bike, and three minutes later I found my keys... exactly where they should be in the key-holder pocket of a backpack... just not my current backpack — instead, they were in the identical backpack I retired a month ago but that still lives in the foyer as a dance-supplies container.
And then I got two care packages, both of which had been temporarily lost, in the mail from my parents.
And I got the water bottle I ordered to replace the one I dropped and broke.
And I got a big fat envelope from American Ballet Theatre. Fat envelopes are good. I remember that from college acceptance letters. And as someone who has studied classical ballet since I was five and idolized ABT just about as long, and after an incredibly challenging and rewarding nine days in the studios of this fabled institution with other teachers from around the world seeking certification to teach ABT's National Training Curriculum, I'm as proud of this as I am of anything I've done. Plus I managed to get through high school and college without having an oral exam, so I finally got to check that accomplishment off, too.
Though I do wish I could get that 1% back.
So in conclusion, I found my keys, I didn't get run over, I got two care packages from loving parents, and I got my certification to teach Pre-Primary through Level 3 of American Ballet Theatre's National Training Curriculum.
It was a great day.
