Day #15: Keys. Let Me In! I Have to Pee!

When I first started teaching at age 22, I left my keys everywhere. I didn't keep them on my regular key ring because Salem High assigns each teacher, like, 10 keys, and when I started trying to open my apartment door with my classroom keys, I decided changes must occur. The seperate keychain lead to key frequent key loss.

My friends at work would find them, shove them in their desk drawers and watch as I ran around the building frantically searching under stacks of papers, beside copiers, in work bags and file cabinets for the lost items.

I thought this was a symptom of youth -- flaking out. Sadly, not much has changed. I still lock myself out.

Dude, I did it today.



I have actually locked myself out of the house about half a dozen times in the last year (in my defense, we bought a new doorknob and it, unlike the last one, locks behind you automatically). Yes, Mom, I have a spare key. No, Mike, I did not put it back where it belongs.




I have locked myself out of my house in my pajamas. I've locked myself out in the rain. I've locked myself out and had to go to the bathroom really, really, really bad.


Its a bit embarassing.


Story time!


Last week I helped my sister move into her new apartment in Philadelphia. Its a nice cool day, so I decide to walk out on her balcony and take a break.

I enjoy the view of the trees and the neighbors unkempt yards and the sound of nailguns working furiously in the sunshine.



I go to head back in, and would't-you-know-it, the door is locked. I knock, and Juan the Landlord let's me back in. He pokes an appropriate amount of fun at me, and I say, out loud -- twice -- "Well, I learned that lesson! Never making that mistake again!"


Back to work unpacking boxes, shifting furniture, setting up televisions, hanging art, etc.


We are nearly finished! We deserve a break! We walk out to the balcony to regroup, formulate a plan of attack, figure out how late I can leave before all hell breaks loose on the highway.


Plan formed. Prepare for action...


You know where this is going, don't you.


Yes, folks, we're locked out. We're locked out, and not only is there no Juan -- there's also no way we are climbing out of the balcony. Its a two-story sheer wall straight down (which, upon reflection, renders the lock pretty moot. There is no way in Alcatraz anyone is getting in there unless they've got Spidey-Skills).




We attempt to get through the window by prying it open. Yank, yank, crack. We successfully break a window in Meg's brand new apartment. Good-bye Meg's security deposit.



We Repunzels are going to need help. Praise the lord there is construction going on next door (I imagine that will be the last time Meg will ever think that). Meg yells to someone working on the site, kindly begging him to get Kevin -- proprietor of the boutique under Meg's apartment.


Kevin comes out the back of the under-construction-building and points and laughs at us. Deserved.


He also calls Juan, who drives all the way back from someplace, and let's us back in. He also suggests we unlock the door.


Fair enough.


Lest you think I am only capable of locking myself out of buildings, let me provide you with another story:



When Mike and I were renovating the bathroom, I drove out to the tile outlet store way out I64 to West-of-Nowhere to try to find some ceramic tile I liked. I took a bunch of samples, rejected them all, and had to drive back out there to return them.


I was already braced for an awkward salesperson encounter (shocker) because the salesperson was putting on a pretty hard sell when I was there last and I thought he was going to double his efforts when I told him I didn't want the stuff.


So I walk in, explain in the vaguest terms possible why I don't want the tile, and leave.


Except I can't leave, because I can see my keys are sitting shotgun and all doors are locked. I don't even have my phone.


This means I have to go back into the ceramic tile place, call Mike and ask him to leave work, drive 20 minutes out of town to bring me my keys and avoid creating an opportunity for the salesperson to rope me into a pitch.




I do these things, but in order to keep clear of the salesperson I feel I need to stand outside the tile place -- located smack dab in the middle of nothing -- and wait for Mike.



This is ridiculous. Its more ridiculous when you know this fact: Remember the Epic Snowstorm of 2010? Yeah, it was the day after that.




The First Salesperson walks outside and reminds me that I am more than welcome to wait inside, where it is not 35 degrees. This seems like a sensible decision, but I picture myself walking into the massive warehouse, chock-a-block with mammoth-burrito-shaped rolls of carpet and endless pallettes of hardwood flooring and the three of us -- staring at each other. How awkward, I think.

So instead of choosing warmth and awkwardness, I choose cold, damp, and being-stared-at-by-every-customer-who-pulls-up. Solid choice.




Second Salesperson walks outside and reminds me that I am more than welcome to wait inside, where I will not risk losing digits from my hands and feet.



"Um, I'm fine. He'll be here any second."



Even as I say those words, I am fully aware that (1) I am not fine. I am cold and wet and acting like a total fool and (2) I have no idea if Mike will be here "any second" because I don't have access to a clock or a phone because they are all inside my car.



Mike comes and unlocks my door, and only mocks me a little bit (which is fair).

I unlocked my door, cranked up the heat, and pulled outta that parking lot so fast, my burning rubber melted the snow in the parking lot.

And I have learned two things:

1. More hide-a-keys is better than too few.

and

2. Make sure you go to the bathroom before you leave the house.