There are days when I honestly think I’d lose my own ass if it wasn’t attached. Keys, wallets, reading glasses—hell, I once misplaced my Tim’s cup while holding it. You’d think after three decades in the creative trenches, I’d have cracked the code on basic organization. Instead, my personal record is losing the same set of keys three times in one morning, all before my second coffee and the first crisis email.

Let’s be clear: this isn’t about being absent-minded. It’s about having a brain that runs a thousand kilometres an hour, juggling ideas, half-baked projects, memories of a high school gym locker combination, and random existential anxieties—usually all before breakfast. My wife will tell you it’s a miracle I ever leave the house with both shoes on the right feet.

And here’s the ugly truth: for all my quirky, off-the-wall humour, nothing sends me into a tailspin faster than losing something I’m absolutely certain I knew where I put. In those moments, “relentless creativity” turns into “relentless stomping.” Drawers get slammed. Cupboards ransacked. Obscenities muttered—half under my breath, half in the hopes the universe might finally listen and cough up my keys. There’s no performance quite like a grown adult storming around the house, demanding to know “who moved my stuff,” when the only culprit is my own overworked mind.

My wife, patient soul that she is, always tries to help. She’ll ask the obvious questions—“Did you check your jacket pocket?” “Maybe the front hall?”—and recount my steps with the same gentle persistence as a detective solving a low-stakes crime. I can’t say for sure, but I’m convinced there’s a certain humour in her voice, a little glint in her eye that says, “Here we go again.” I suspect it’s one of the small joys in her day, watching me lose my shit over a set of car keys while the dog looks on with a mix of pity and amusement.

But I’m learning—slowly, stubbornly—to practice what I preach. Not every unexpected challenge in life is a hill you have to die on. Sometimes you need to step back, take a deep breath, and remember: it’s just keys. It’s just a wallet. It’s just another chance to laugh at yourself instead of launching a full-scale domestic search-and-rescue.

I used to see these moments as evidence I was failing at adulthood. Now, I try to see them for what they are: reminders that my head’s a busy place, and busy places aren’t always tidy. Sure, I could use a bit more order, but maybe a little chaos is the price I pay for living in a mind that never wants to shut up.

The best part? Sometimes, those wild searches turn up more than just the thing I lost. An old note. A forgotten drawing. A ticket stub from a concert before COVID turned everything sideways. These are the little treasures of a life lived on the move—a record of the detours, distractions, and stumbles that make up the real story.

So here’s my truth: I’m a work in progress. I’ll lose my keys again (probably before I finish this post). I’ll slam a few drawers, mutter a few curses, and—eventually—laugh at the absurdity of it all. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn to let a few things go. After all, not every lost object, or lost moment, is a disaster. Sometimes, it’s just another way for the universe to remind you you’re alive—and still searching.

Here’s to the ones who lose things, lose their cool, and find their sense of humour somewhere in between.