It’s Never Easy

I lost my wallet a couple of weeks ago. I know, it’s not unusual. It’s happened to everyone, I can join the crowd. But where I found it, now that’s unusual.

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday my neighbor and I walk. We meet at 8 a.m. and drive either to the park when the weather is nice or, when it’s not, to a local college at which I used to teach. As Wednesday was a not-so-nice day, we planned to walk inside. I carried my water bottle and my cheese stick to the car. I cleared the debris from the front seat—not much, just a couple of small items, a cloth grocery bag, and the GPS that perches on the dashboard—then, drove us up to the college. We parked, I locked my purse in the trunk, and we walked into the building—talking, of course, because that’s what we do.

We dropped off our coats with the secretary in the office and we headed off. About 25 steps into our walk, I slipped my hands into my sweatshirt pockets to make sure I had the three things I routinely carry: car keys, cell phone and my small, dark gray soft leather wallet with ID and insurance card and house key. Jeans right pocket—car keys;  sweatshirt right pocket—cell phone; sweatshirt left pocket—hmm, no wallet; jeans left pocket—still no wallet. Odd, I thought.  I must have left it in my purse, which was, at that moment, locked in the trunk.  I mentioned it to my walking partner, and she agreed that must be where it was. “Unless,” she said, “You left it in your coat.” I agreed, that could be where it was.

We walked without incident, our usual almost-a-mile, and headed back to get our coats. We retrieved them, and I checked the pockets. No wallet. I was not worried because I was sure it was in my purse in the trunk. When we got to the car, I fetched my purse out of the trunk and checked. No wallet. Hmm. Maybe it was in a different section. I always put it in the front, but maybe in my haste this morning, I did something different. Not front section, not back section, not anywhere in my purse. “Oh,” said my neighbor, “It’s probably in the coat you wore yesterday.” I agreed, but I was pretty sure I’d worn the same coat yesterday.

At home, I checked my coat pockets—the green windbreaker, the navy rain jacket, the blue fleece, the pink fitness jacket—all of them. I went into the laundry hamper and checked my jeans. I told my husband about it and he helped me look. “When do you remember last having it?” he asked (and, yes, I’d already asked myself that question). I remember having it two days earlier when we walked, but that was the last time I was sure of. I’d taken my driver’s license out in the past couple of days because somebody wanted to see ID, but I couldn’t remember where that was. He couldn’t remember either, and I was pretty sure I’d been with him because we had been together most of Tuesday. (Retirement is such a trip.) I checked the pockets again. I went through my purse again. I looked on the counter under some mail. I called the secretary at school in the faint hope it had fallen on the floor. Nope, she didn’t see it. 

Where in the heck was it? I could feel my heart rate speed up. I decided to retrace my steps. I got in my car and drove back up to the college . Nothing in the parking lot. Nothing in the entry. Nothing in the elevator (Yes, elevator. I’m old. I walk down the stairs, not up.) I double-checked the office, then made my way to other offices in the building.

 Everyone commiserated with me.  “Ohh, did you check your pockets?  Did you look in your car?  Did you check way under the seats?”  Yes, sort of, not really. One suggestion was that I go to Campus Safety and see if anyone had turned it in. So I headed there.

On my way, I got a call on my cell phone from my husband. “You took your ID out when we voted yesterday. I just remembered.” Ding! That narrowed it down. “Maybe you’ll need to go to the polling place and ask them.” Yes, I thought I might have to do that. And I might have to go to the Secretary of State’s office and get a new license today, and I might have to call about my insurance card. And I might have to change the locks on my house because if you lose your house key with a wallet that’s got your address in it, well, I guess you’d be foolish not to change them. ARRGH!!

Meanwhile, I drove to campus safety, which is in a separate building about 100 feet away. Once I parked, I thought of the advice about checking my car. The car is pretty clean, but maybe the wallet slipped out of my pocket as I drove, or even as I rode in the passenger seat yesterday. I once lost my office keys under the seat when they became detached from the rest of the set.

 

So I parked and checked both the front driver’s seat side and then the front passenger side. I found a gum wrapper, a pre-packaged filter with coffee in it (don’t ask), a silicone packet to absorb moisture, and a receipt from the grocery store. No wallet. In the back passenger side, I found absolutely nothing, just a floor mat with nothing under it. Working my way around the car, I came to the back left. I picked up a winter hat that was on the floor. Nothing under that. On the seat were the hardware store receipt and the small purchases. I lifted them. Nothing. I reached for the GPS which I had folded down and placed on the dark cloth bag on the seat. From under the corner of the GPS, I saw a gleam—my house key. I picked up the GPS, and attached to the sticky underside, there was my missing wallet.

Relief flooded me. Apparently, I had taken it out of my purse that morning,and carried it with my water bottle and cheese stick to the car. When I moved the junk from the front seat to the back, I’d had that wallet in my hand and when I folded down the GPS, I managed to stick the wallet to its underside. In my early morning stupor, I simply plunked the whole thing down in the back, and that’s where it rested until retrieved.

So the sum total of the morning after election day: I spent one hour walking and a second hour searching for a lost wallet. I know what is and what is not in the pockets of each of my coats. I received appropriate commiseration and advice from a variety of people. And it seems that the finding of my lost wallet brightened up the day of at least four people, as they could laugh at my misadventure.

And if I ever want to hide something small in the car, I know where I’ll put it.

Yoga and Me

Yoga and Me 

Yoga is fun.

Yoga is soothing and restful. 

Yoga is graceful.

Yoga is . . . .  I don’t know what to say.  Four weeks ago, at age 64, I started my very first yoga class ever. I’ve heard so much about yoga. I know people who RAVE about what it can do for you. So I was prepared to be wowed. And right now I don’t know how I feel about it. I can tell you what it is NOT.

Fun—I had to cross that out because fun is something that makes me laugh and cheer and want to do it more, like eating ice cream or watching funny movies or going to lunch with my friends. Yoga is fun if I define fun as twisting myself into pretzel shapes, sticking my fanny in the air (a move called ‘downward dog’), and finding that I really cannot stand on one foot (‘crane pose’). At all. If I can include pain in my limbs, heavy breathing from holding my weight on my arms, and sudden, dramatic hot flashes in my definition of fun, maybe it’s working as fun. Umm, no. And yet I admit that I keep going back, that I try to do the moves between classes, and that I look forward to the class. Hmm.

Soothing and restful—I crossed that one out because even though we breathe in and out slowly, I find I can’t breathe that slow. So I’m always off breath from the instructor. When she is saying, “And on your exhale, bring your arms down, palms together in front of you,” I am already on my second inhale. So do I do a quick inhale and exhale so I am in step? Or do I inhale as I bring my arms down, thus negating the positive effects of the deeeep breathing that is so much a part of yoga? And I really really really can’t make all the moves she makes. So I’m finding it a tad stressful because ‘pigeon pose’ causes pain in my hip, and I can never roll up to rest on my shin with my hand stretching to the sky. To be fair, my instructor offers all of these moves as “suggestions,” and she suggests other poses for those of us who cannot do these. She does turn the lights down, and she speaks softly and slowly and keeps encouraging us to breathe in and out. At the end of each session, I stretch out as she suggests, feel the aches and muscles I did not know I had. I rest to the point that I’m not sure I can rise.  So perhaps that qualifies as restful.  Let me think about that.

Graceful—hahahahaha! Okay, give me a second. I’ll admit I’ve seen some graceful moves among yoga participants, but none of them was mine. I have a dream of grace, but I’m never even close. When we move from hands-and-knees to one knee forward and then to something called “threading the needle”, which is putting your right arm between your forward knee and your left arm, so that you come to rest on your shoulder with your backside in the air, I tip over. I mean, I tip right over. When I try the ‘crane pose’, standing on one foot with the other at the inside of my knee, I tip over. When I lie on my back and stretch my left leg up toward the ceiling, then my right leg up toward the ceiling, then lift my shoulders and arms toward the ceiling, so that I am  “balanced” on my gluteus maximus, I tip over—then, I collapse. And I laugh.  Because what else can you do? And my instructor laughs and says, “And that’s another way you can do it.” I guess that takes me back to ‘fun’.

So what is yoga? It’s a set of stretches and moves that are a little beyond my ability. I’m not 35 any more (Or even 45.  Or even. . .enough.). “Fun” is too strong a term, but I like going.  “Soothing and restful”—only if that means I come home exhausted but calm and ready to sleep. “Graceful” is only an idea, a dream. But I’m allowed to dream. Someday, maybe I’ll get almost graceful. Right now, yoga is hard work.