If My Head Wasn't Attached

About once a month, on average, I lock myself out of my apartment. My keys are attached to my wallet, so walking out the door without my driver’s license, money, credit cards AND keys is really a feat of impressive stupidity. Through the providence of roommates and/or the grace of God, I’ve never been truly stranded on my front step for any significant period of time, but I’m pushing my luck.

On Monday I went out for a bike ride without my keys, cell phone or ID, the three things that I’ve been trained to toss in my saddle bag for emergencies. I returned home, dismounted, and as the realization dawned on me and the word “Fuck” started to form on my lips, New Roommate M walked over from the other direction. “Oh, great, I don’t even have to pull out my keys!” I felt strangely compelled to bluff as I tossed my bike over my shoulder and followed her through the front doors.

This morning I did it again, and realized before I even arrived at the office. I should have turned around and gotten them while New Roommate M was still at home, but for some reason I carried on to fulfill my oh-so-critical daily task of dialing the phone number for the 8AM conference call. Then when I got upstairs, Pain in the Analyst had already dialed in to the call. I’m an idiot. So at lunch, rather than brave the Jimmy Choo sample sale with C (I didn’t have my wallet, after all, and wasn’t in the mood for a cat fight over a pair of living-beyond-my-means ankle boots), I trekked back home to buzz every apartment until someone let me up. Again, I don’t know why this seemed like a good idea, as surely less people would be home at 1:30PM than at 5PM after work, but there I was ringing every doorbell until my Afghani Bodyguard-cum-Savior stuck his head out of his restaurant next-door and revealed that he had a key. Man, I love that guy. He’s nosy, he knows my name from the one and only time I ordered takeout, he makes me do pushups with him on the sidewalk when I get back from a run, and his omnipresence in the restaurant entranceway gives pause to any unwanted male suitors. He really completes my Living In New York City experience. AND he has an extra key.

I lied and told him that I had my apartment key just not the building key. Not only do I have a key-forgetting problem; I also have related compulsory lying issues. I don’t know what he’d do if I told him my plan of climbing down the fire escape from the roof through my open bathroom window. In a dress, of course. Cat burglars, take note: I forget to lock my bathroom window more often than I forget my keys.