I pulled into work today, got out of my car, and reached for my bag.
It wasn’t there.
I remembered setting it down outside the car with my daughter’s backpack, buckling the kids in, giving my daughter her backpack, neutralizing a sibling dispute about Madeline the book not Madeline the cookie, and driving to WAIT OH MY GOD I LEFT IT ON THE GROUND
My camera was in it. Every SD card I own was in it. All of them full. A CAN OF MINUTE MAID DIET LEMONADE THAT TASTES LIKE SEVERE HEAD TRAUMA BUT I BOUGHT FOUR TWELVE PACKS OF IT FOR FOUR DOLLARS ON SALE SO AS LONG AS IT DOESN’T TASTE LIKE COMA I WIN WAS IN THAT BAG OH MY GOD
So I got back in my car and flew home.
By “flew” I mean “went on a global tour visiting every fucking red light ever manufactured and installed since the invention of oxygen.” At one intersection, a lady old enough to remember evolution was crossing the street wearing those sunglasses that go over the sunglasses you’re already wearing over your glasses, and was moving at a rate of approximately one foot per epoch.
I considered forgetting to not go. I won’t say I didn’t.
The bag was there. I can’t believe it was there, but it was.
And the can of Minute Maid horror was dented all to hell. I had hit the bag with my car on my way out.
The camera was unharmed.
Call me, Mensa.
