Getting ready to leave was a mad dash and a lot of sitting around not believing I was actually ready. Because I wasn’t ready, I’m still not ready and I’ve been here for a week. But I was, mostly, prepared. But anyway, an awful lot managed to happened in those last countdown days.
I lost my wallet. That was a big thing.
On the penultimate day before departure, feeling foggy and riddled with anxiety, I decided to clear my head with a motorcycle ride. My last chance for a while, and a beautiful day.
Because I’m the kind of person who prepares for a 14 hour pure-drive-time day by spending all morning driving. At least it was a different sort of vehicle?
Anyway, no matter how head-clearing open road is, I shouldn’t have gone as far as I did. After the second gas fill up, still an hour from home, I was tired and saddle-sore and ready to be home and get things rolling before departure. I felt at ease with it. I had reminded myself that I am my purest, happiest self when I am in transit. It was exactly what I needed.
It took most of the tank to get back to my neighborhood. I thought about filling up and stretching at the halfway point but no, no I was just ready to be back and done. Time to get moving. I pulled in for one last fill-up, to leave Dave the bike with a full tank, and as I reached to unzip my side pocket, my hand slid in to the already-open space instead. An empty space. Somewhere in the 65 or so miles I just rode, my wallet had fallen out.
I made an awful, snarled sound of disbelieving self-hate, I did a quick circuit of the gas station just in case it fell out right now, by some mercy. Of course it hadn’t.
“That’s cool.” Some guy said as he sauntered by.
For a second I forgot that I was on a very cool motorcycle and thought he was talking about my rage. But then I caught up and just gave him the same tight-lipped dismissive nod I give everyone else. On the bike, they respect that.
I’m so mad. I’m so embarrassed. No amount of cool motorcycle rides or long-sword fighting will ever stop me from being this same, stupid, forgetful, person who doesn’t double check the damn zippers. Or maybe use the inside pockets?
The worst part, is that I had to re-drive 65 miles out and back. I visited Dave at work for gas money, and change out from the bike to my car, since by then I was even more tired and anrgy and I nearly slid out on the bike driving home because I was such a wreck. I told Dave I have to go back to the last stop, just to see. Maybe they had it. Maybe I’d see it on the road. I could see in his grimace that he knew it was a waste of time when there wasn’t much left to waste. It didn’t matter, I had to do it, just to know I didn’t miss an easy save. I drive two and half more hours, just staring at the road and shoulder, begging something to catch my eye.
After this long, road-weary day, I finally ate something. I visited my friend where he bar-tends, partly to visit, partly because I didn’t have the effort to fish out my passport to have an ID, and I got a drink. I realized that a wallet is far from the worst thing I could have lost or damaged just before my trip. It’s a headache, but not the worst.
But then I remembered that there’s an entire song that is essentially about an existential crisis and it starts with losing a wallet. So I feel a little better. Both that famous singers lose their wallets, and that they think that’s distressing enough to sing about.
This is a picture I took of the motorcycle on my last day working for the Tax office….ahh sweet freedom
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