* When I write about being depressed, I’m not looking for anyone to tell me how great I am or all the things I have to be thankful for. What I want to hear more than anything is “Oh yeah, I know how you feel. I get that way too.”
If my dad were here, he’d say “yep, misery loves company.”
I guess that’s true, Dad. Whether it’s misery or feeling like a misfit or wondering if you’re the only one on earth who loses your car key and doesn’t have a spare, we all want to know that other people can relate.
Well, I do, anyway.
And hopefully those who can relate to me aren’t habitual offenders with multiple restraining orders against them.
My old mentor, Janet, the one who moved to Fresno, used to say, “Angela, never compare your insides with other people’s outsides. It’ll just make you miserable.”
Those of you who seem so perfect…I just want evidence that you’re not. I want to hear about when you got the time wrong for your kid’s ball game and got there an hour late. And the team had to forfeit because they didn’t have enough players. Or that family vacation when you and your husband got into a fight and you pouted and didn’t speak to anyone for an entire day. And then later on, you felt ridiculous and immature for getting that mad over such a little thing. (Those were random examples…sort of.)
The problem is that I’ve lost the key fob to my car. The only one I had. It’s vanished. Evaporated. Went “poof.” Gone.
(Key Fob: The little remote control thingy that has replaced metal keys in many of today’s cars. It makes life so much easier…until you lose the darned thing.)
Yes, I’ve looked in every pocket, drawer, cabinet, purse, closet and orifice. For two whole days, I’ve relentlessly ripped my car, house and yard apart, like a DEA agent searching for heroin. If I die in the next couple of days, my ghost will probably haunt our property searching in vain for the missing fob.
“Legend has it that on cold January nights when the moon is full, you can hear the restless spirit of Angela Weight opening and shutting drawers, rifling through closets and muttering ‘where is that freaking key!!!!'”
I even made my poor husband drive me back to the CITGO station so I could search through the garbage can next to the gas pump. It wasn’t there either. Shameka, the very nice attendant, said that no one had turned in a set of keys, but I was welcome to keep anything I wanted from the garbage.
Now, I’m waiting for Tony at Richmond Ford to call me back and tell me whether he has the undoubtedly expensive key fob in stock.
And what kind of word is “fob?” A stupid one. Fob sounds like it should be an acronym for something negative…like “Freaking Obnoxious Boss” or “Fon of a Bitch.”
I wonder if employees in the parts department think that Tony is a FOB.
“You have to buy two fobs. The car can’t be programmed with just one,” Tony explained slowly, in a tone reserved for hard-of-hearing foreigners.”
“Fon-of-a-bitch! How much will that cost?” I responded, in a tone reserved for realizing I’m not getting new bedroom furniture anytime soon.
When you lose your only key fob, the vehicle has to be towed to the dealer for reprogramming.
It’s not just the cost and inconvenience that’s got me down, but those self-sabotaging”I’m such an incompetent idiot,” feelings that accompany losing your keys.
This whole ordeal throws me back to being an awkward fifth grader with a lisp. With evil Mrs. Lovett telling my mom that I must have a learning disability because I’m spacey and have the messiest handwriting she’s ever seen.
“Angela just can’t get it together!”
And only stupid, outcast fifth graders lose their keys as adults.
To compensate, I’m trying to think positive thoughts like “Yes, I’ve lost my key, but I’m a loving, productive, valuable member of society.”
“Hi Tony, I’ve lost my key fob, but that doesn’t make me a bad person. How much will a new one cost?”
And then my mom calls.
“Well, what’d you lose your keys for, Angela?”
“Guess I was just in the mood to lose something and spend $500 to replace it. And I have a learning disability. And have you seen my atrocious handwriting?”
Oh good. The tow truck’s here.
If you’d like to read more essays like this one, click here to download my new ebook for your Kindle reader or Kindle app on your smart phone.