Why won’t my wallet stay with me?

Derrick Knutson

In a couple of days I’ll have a brand-new package of coin-sized batteries shipped to my door, which will hopefully help alleviate some of my forgetfulness.
Some of you reading that sentence might think to yourselves, “How do batteries help with memory maladies? Surely ingesting them would make memory worse.”
These batteries will be used for a little tracking device I should really keep in my wallet at all times. My sister bought me this quarter-sized thingamajig – kind of as a joke, but now I think I really need it – a few years ago. It fits easily in my wallet and pairs with an app on my phone. Basically, it’s just a tracking device that will tell me where my wallet is when I lose it. It worked for about three months, and then the battery went dead. I’d been meaning to get new batteries for it, but I just forgot to do it.
Prior to Monday morning, I’d misplaced or lost my wallet probably no less than half a dozen times throughout my life. It started in high school, when I thought someone stole it out of the truck I was driving while I was working for a lawn care business. I actually went to the police department, had a report filed, canceled my credit card and got a new driver’s license. Then, two years later, when I was cleaning out my car, I found it wedged very deep down in one of the seats.
Another time, I dropped it in the parking lot of a Chipotle restaurant, and I didn’t realize I had lost my wallet until I was about 20 miles from the eatery. I drove back to the Chipotle, and there was some good Samaritan, waiting in the parking lot with my wallet to see if I would come back to retrieve it.
In another instance, I thought I had left my wallet at my wife’s family’s cabin, about a two-hour drive from our house, and just as my wife was about to call a neighbor near the cabin to see if he would search the property for it, I found it – I kid you not – in our made bed. I had apparently grabbed my wallet that morning, put it on the bed, and then proceeded to straighten the bed covers overtop of it without realizing the wallet was in there.
On Monday, I was in a frantic search for my wallet in the morning. The last place I could remember having it was the grocery store the previous night, so I stopped by there and asked an employee if anyone had turned in a wallet. That attempt turned out to be fruitless. I came home and looked inside and underneath our furniture, on top of anything I could think of, in the clothes basket and in my car, but I had no luck. Frustrated, I decided to take a break and get some editing done for the newspaper.
Later in the day, I carefully retraced my steps from the previous night. I tried to think what I was doing and what I was wearing. I kept going back to that clothes basket, thinking, “I was wearing these blue shorts. … Why is my wallet not in these shorts?”
Then it dawned on me: The shorts I was wearing the previous day were green, and they hadn’t gotten dirty while I was wearing them, so I folded them back up and put them in a drawer. I opened the drawer, found the wallet in the shorts and then I may or may not have given myself a triumphant high-five.
When I ordered the batteries for this tracking device, it said they wouldn’t be delivered until the end of the week. I don’t know if I can wait that long. I’m assuming by Friday my wallet will have mysteriously wandered its way into the freezer, on top of the roof or perhaps it’ll get buried in our vegetable garden.

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