Losing Streak

Here's a good thing about Chris.  It's an unexpected dark horse of a strength in a man who lives like Dory from Finding Nemo.  When the chips are down, when all else has failed, when I've given up in despair - he's surprisingly good at finding lost things.  He approaches it with the single-minded determination he usually reserves for riddles and conspiracy theories.

I don't lose stuff that often, so when I do, I'm completely flummoxed. I'm quickly overwhelmed, and soon end up lying on the floor in impotent frustration.  I crawl to Chris and beg him for help and he throws on his cape and finds what I need.

So I am eternally grateful to him for scraping me off the floor and handing me my phone or wedding ring or whatever.

THAT SAID.

This morning, Chris comes walking through the room, dragging his feet, mumbling.  A few minutes later, he takes a second lap.  On his third time through, I ask him what he's looking for. 

"It's really bad.  I can't find my keys."

"Oh, I know this one!  I saw them on the bed.  We probably slept with them."

"Hahaha, they probably fell in my butt."

(Chris is never so upset that he doesn't think it is funny to talk about butts.) (Even though it doesn't even make sense that keys could fall into a butt.)

He ruffles around in our bedroom for a second, but then he's back, checking pockets of dirty clothes.  I help him for a minute, to show partnership and solidarity.

"But you didn't find them in the bed?" I ask.

"No," he dismisses, "I think I remember picking them up from someplace weird yesterday."

So we look some more.

"But you don't specifically remember the bed, exactly?  And where would you have put them if not all these pockets we just found empty?"

I can tell that he is deep in his head.  I'm an annoying gnat, interrupting his mojo.

So I go look in the bed myself.

GUESS WHAT. 

TOTAL SURPRISE.

Did NOT see this coming

. . . but the keys were in the bed.