The Day I Lost My Keys And I Cried While I Ate Chinese Food in the Hallway of My Apartment Complex

It's not too cold of a day, low-40s,  I'm wearing a thick sweater with no pockets, I'm carrying a purse. One purse. With no pockets inside the purse. You will understand why this is important later.

I am going to sell some of my clothing to a consignment shop, trying to make some extra cash for the holidays, I know you can all relate to that. I drove my car to the location. I parked my car. I turned my car off. I got out of my car, walked around the back end, and opened the passenger side door. I pulled the two bags out. My hands were full. I went straight into the front doors and to the front counter. I signed the paperwork and stood by the front door reading my twitter feed waiting for my name to be called when they were done judging the quality and color of my shit. I was hoping for a $20. Bored with twitter, a pair of booties caught my eye. I walked over to them. Picked them up, set them down upon assessment of my life and how these booties would not fit into it. "Morgan!" They had quickly stifled through my shit and found some they wanted to keep and sell in their store. I like selling my clothes. I get some cash, and get rid of some clutter. Everyone wins. I go up to the register to hear her memorized speech about why the company took some shit and why they didn't take the other shit and she handed me $40. I was feeling pretty good about the two twenty dollar bills in my wallet. I grabbed the remaining one bag, walked to my car. Sat in the drivers seat, keyless. I checked the obvious places, my purse, the bag of clothing I was carrying, the floor of my car, the pavement. They weren't outside. I went back in and immediately dropped to the floor crawling around looking under racks for my keys. At this point I was panicking and had no regard for social graces. 

Here's the thing. 

These keys, they are sacred. They are the only set I have. Well, had. 

I asked all the businesses in the strip mall. I called the police station(s).  The girls at the consignment shop were very helpful. We tore the place apart. Nothing. They were gone. 

I walked head low, trying not to cry, to the chinese restaurant at the end of strip mall. At this point in the evening, I was supposed to be a work dinner. I had been playing detective throughout the entire thing and now I was hangry. I ordered some $4.99 vegetable fried rice. I called my cab driver. He came and got me. We drove home and he let me sit shotgun and pick the music I wanted to listen to on the stereo, because he's just that kind of cab guy. I called the people at my apartment complex who come let the people who lose their keys into their apartment, for a fee. And then I did just what I said I did. I sat outside the door of my apartment and cried and ate chinese food. I will admit, it was childish. But it felt oddly appropriate and oddly Hollywood. I am not ashamed of it. If I could change anything, the weepies would have been playing in the background. 

I still have no idea how much this entire debacle is going to cost me. Most likely: a fucking lot. 

But if you ever needed a reason to make a copy of your keys, here is one. Go do it. Like now. Like RIGHT now. 

Because I lost my keys in 10 minutes. 

It can happen to you. 

Now I am just curious: when keys get lost where they go? Probably the same place that socks go. 

I kind of wanted this piece to have some kind of overarching metaphor or something but I'm just too exhausted emotionally and physically to deal with that kind of depth right now.