Since all three of my blog readers have voted, and 2 out of the three had "smart attack" in their top choices, I'm going with that story first. Although I fear it may be anti-climatic after such hype and anticipation.
After working late last Monday, I made a trip to the grocery store, mainly to get food for a work party the next day. My coworker had graduated from her Masters program over the weekend and we would be surprising her the next day with lunch, a gift and a card signed by everyone. A typical office "party."
I had already picked up her gift over the weekend (a bottle of Bailey's - it was either that or something from the school bookstore and she's not exactly the school spirit type) so was somewhat miffed when no one else from the office volunteered to get the food for the party. But I needed to pick up some things anyways, so no big deal. I was the only one in my building when I left my office in St. Paul and headed towards home in Minneapolis, stopping at the store on the way.
I carefully picked out lettuce and tomatoes from the produce department and weighed and labeled the bags myself. Visited the deli and had two kinds of cold cuts sliced and weighed. Again to the deli for two kinds of cheeses. And to the bakery for rolls. Now I had everything for the sandwich bar we'd agreed upon. (I planned on stealing condiments from the University cafeteria). Others from the office were bringing things like fruit and chips. I'm convinced that they volunteered to bring these items because they already had them at home and wouldn't require a trip to the store, but I could be wrong.
Picked out a few items for myself, and got in line.
Enter the smart attack.
At least I hadn't started unloading my cart yet, or worse, had all my items rung up. The line was long and something possessed me to get out my credit card so I'd have it ready when the time came.
I knew instantly where it was. On my desk at work, where I'd laid it after my coworkers gave me cash towards the party food.
Checked my coat pockets, pants pockets and every compartment of my purse anyways.
Got out of line. Checked again.
Still no wallet.
Stood there for two minutes thinking, "Even if I wanted to just put everything back and go home I can't. First of all, half the stuff I bought came from the deli or bakery and literally can't be put back. And even if I just abandon my cart in aisle 3 and flee, I still have to get this stuff by lunchtime tomorrow."
I decided to confess to the deli girl who'd helped me earlier. Turns out, this must happen fairly often. She told me to go to the service desk and they'd put my items in a cooler until I came back. Which meant confessing to yet another person.
Checked around the inside of my car, just in case.
Headed back to St. Paul. Called my girlfriend on the way to inform her "you're dating a dumbass and feel free to break up with me after I tell you what I just did."
It wasn't until I was walking up the steps of my building that I remembered my only way in at this time of day is with my key card.
Which is located where?
That's right, my wallet.
I was picturing my impending walk to the campus security office where the rent-a-cop would give me the same look the deli girl and service desk dude had just given me ... when I saw a custodian in my building!
One stroke of luck in a series of mishaps.
Retrieved my wallet, returned to the store, retrieved my shopping cart and got to work the next day to find that the head of the department had decided to surprise our office with lunch: a sandwich bar.