Waiting for the Dough

I was having a Monday-type of morning the other day. The type of scatter-brained day where just putting one foot in front of the other is an energy-draining challenge and going back to bed seemed like the least objectionable option. Unfortunately, I couldn't return to my blankies and it really was Monday.

The commute to work is about an hour and I had just enough gas to get half way there. No problem. That's how it usually works out. Of course, I knew I was running short on fuel on Sunday, and had ample opportunity to fill the tank up then. But no. I didn’t. I drive a small Toyota Tacoma pick-up and rack up around 500 miles a week. And though the mileage is pretty good, I find it eminently satisfying whenever I can squeeze just one more day off the calendar before having to feed the gas tank again. So, no. I didn’t fill it up on Sunday.

Again, though, this wasn’t a problem. I reached the half-way point of my daily drive at a Shell station just a half block from I-80 in Auburn. So far, so good. There was even a smidgen of daylight left above the ‘E’. Stopped in front of an empty self-serve pump and fully expecting to fill up, I reached for my wallet to pull out the Shell card to do just that and found....no wallet. It wasn’t in my pockets or in my lunch box. It was nowhere. No wallet meant no credit card to buy gas, no cash to buy gas, and nothing of value to even barter for gas. Nada. Zip. I couldn't even prove who I was.

A shell-shocked feeling of imminent dread came over me.

Oh, come on; it has to be here, I pleaded under my breath calmly, a state of being which lasted about three more seconds before I began flinging stuff all over the place in a frenzied search for the absent billfold. Lunch box, emptied and turned over; laptop turned inside out; books swiped to the floor. No wallet. Nothing Still cursing at the truck- as if that’d be helpful- I screeched away from the pump and stopped ten feet later at the air and water station where I began tossing everything from behind the seat out onto the pavement- tarps, tools, bungee tie-downs, tire chains, the jack; everything. It looked like I was moving out. Or in. Or setting up a yard sale. But the wallet remained M.I.A.

There wasn't enough gas to return home or make it the rest of the way to work. I was stranded. Fortunately, I did have my cell phone and called Amy to explain the predicament. She'd just pulled into work herself, but without complaint agreed to back-track home, grab the wallet and bring it to me. Such a trooper. I was at least 25 miles from our house, so this hand-off was going to involve about an hour of her day and a 50-mile round trip. Then I sheepishly called Andrew, my supervisor, to give him the heads-up that I might not be showing up till Tuesday.

Next, I stowed all the far flung items back to their rightful places. All the things tossed on the ground were gently returned to the backseat of the cab. Then I calmly replaced all the stuff tossed about the front seat and settled in to wait. And fume. It'd be at least a half hour before I'd be going anywhere. So I sat back and killed time listening to the radio and watching cars go by- cars who's owners did have wallets and did have credit cards- and tried not to think of all the work I wasn't getting done.

About 35 minutes later, Amy called in. "I've looked everywhere. I can't find it". Damn. I always left the wallet on the kitchen table together with my car keys and key card from work. It could be no place else. "No, it has to be there!" I yelled, because yelling always resolves a problem quicker. Err,, makes my position more valid. Errr… well,  never mind. Amy asked again, "Are you sure you've checked every place in the truck?"  What a ridiculous question, I thought. Of course I had. Did she think I was that stupid? But to re-prove my point and humor her I did a quick double check.

I got out of the truck, got down on my knees and, in contrast to the panicked frisk done before, searched everyplace including under the driver's seat. There, ya happy? But before I could become even more self-righteous and snarky, fate stepped in and, like stumbling upon the Holy Grail, there it was- my little brown leather wallet, wedged under the seat and in plain view. How I missed it, I don't know; I guess it fell through the cracks sometime on Sunday and I simply forgot about it. All my angst wasted, the silly thing was there all the time.

I breathed out a huge sigh of relief and apologized to my betrothed for pitching a fit and behaving like an out-of-control buffoon. Then I filled the gas tank, texted my boss and proceeded merrily on my way. Moral of the story: I’m an idiot. Well, sometimes anyway. For sure I’m a little high strung, quick to lose patience and slow to think things through; not the most useful reactions during a crisis. Or, non-crisis. But after all the self-flagellation, not to be overlooked was the teachable moment.  It came after I got down on my knees and actually opened my eyes. That's when I found what I was looking for.

I knew there had to be a lesson in there somewhere.