Van full of groceries. Just need to run in to Gym Corner to pick up Sarah. It's cold out, but I'll be quick, so no need to put on my jacket. Go in, get Sarah, come back out, pull the door handle on the van...why isn't it opening? I didn't lock it. I peer through the window. Yep. I locked it. And there are the keys, dangling from the ignition. No problem. I've done this before (OK, I do it at least monthly). All I have to do is reach underneath and get the magnetic key holder with my extra key inside it and we'll be back in business. I get on my knees, reach under, feel nothing but smooth chassis where my key holder always is. Panic. It must have fallen off somehow after all these years of faithful service.
I flop down on the hard asphalt and remember that Mike was the last one to replace the extra key. I call him. He says he moved it to a "little crevice that is just perfect for it." It's not perfect for ME, because it's not my usual spot. I feel around. I can't find it. Now I'm lying flat on my back, feeling all over the whole greasy, grimy underbelly of the van in the dark. I don't feel it anywhere, and I can't see a thing. I shinny and gyrate myself along until I'm completely underneath the van. Sarah turns her phone into a flashlight and slides it under to me. I'm cold, hungry, annoyed, and I can't find it. I know my jacket is right above me, all warm and cozy inside the van, as I should be. I mumble to myself something about "...if I ever find it, I might shove it up his perfect little crevice.."
I twist myself around to look from the other direction and finally locate it. I wiggle my way out, and I go to stand up. But I've been lying on cold, hard asphalt for a long time in various contorted positions, and I'm old and stiff, so I promptly fall right over backwards like a drunkard.
When we finally get home, Sarah tells Mike what I said about his crevice. How is it that she can hear me mumbling to myself from underneath a vehicle, but she can't hear me when I speak plainly right next to her?