Where Are My Effing Gloves?

(Source)

A few years back (four years ago Wednesday to be precise) I related the story of how I once had mistakenly assumed that a jacket belonging to me had been nipped, stolen, made off with, misappropriated, er, perhaps misplaced, after a night without much sleep followed by a long day. You can read that tale here, I have to say, I did not cover myself with glory on that day.

You might gather from the title of today's post that I, once again, got spun up over something which was actually, and I'll be blunt here, "my own damn fault."

As one ages, things are perceived differently, the brain is jam-packed with information which may or may not be useful on an every day basis.

While it may be really, really cool that I know how to load a smooth bore cannon in the proper manner, it ain't much help in "where are my car keys" and "why did I come downstairs" types of situations that we (okay, I) encounter each and every day.

What I try to do, because of my training and experience, is reduce everything to a procedure, a checklist if you will. My head is full of checklists concerning my everyday activities. My keys and wallet always, yes, always, go in one of two places, depending on the season of the year. I guess if you were to write it out, it would look like this -

• Am I wearing a jacket or coat?
• If yes, put wallet and car keys into pockets, zip up the pockets*, hang up the coat.
• If no, put wallet and car keys on desk, next to security badge (which if not hanging around my neck is on top of my desk, always, no exceptions).

When I travel, I also have certain procedures which I must follow to the letter, otherwise I find myself in situations similar to the tale of woe I have for you today.

As you may know, over the Christmas holidays The Missus Herself and Your Humble Scribe traveled south to northern Virginia, Arlington to be precise, there to celebrate the birth of Our Savior with The Nuke and her two dogs.

As is my wont I scheduled the flight to leave T.F. Green at what The WSO likes to call "the butt crack of dawn." In order to catch such a flight with allowance for passing through TSA, etc., etc., one must arise at such an hour to arrive at the airport no later than an hour and a half before scheduled departure.

While I am not as bad as this guy, I am oft accused of being "exactly like that." At least according to my daughters and The Missus Herself. Perhaps it's Air Force tradition. Which (I have heard) runs something like this -

The Colonel to The Captain: "I want to be "wheels up" no later than 0930 Captain, make sure our people are ready to board at the appropriate time."

The Captain to The Lieutenant: "Lieutenant, have your people in the Military Airlift Command terminal no later than 0630. We want everyone there, a headcount taken, and all baggage palletized before the colonel arrives!"

The Lieutenant to the First Sergeant: "Sergeant, have everyone at the terminal no later than 0530, I will be there shortly thereafter and I expect everyone accounted for, and all the baggage ready to go!"

The Sergeant to The Troops: "Alright, listen up you morons! I want everyone up and ready to fall in outside the barracks at 0300, because the bus to the terminal will be leaving at 0330 sharp. If you're not in formation when I call the roll, I will make you regret the day you were born! IS THAT CLEAR?"

The Troops: "YES, FIRST SERGEANT!"

No, I'm not like that at all. But the day upon which this tale occurs, was a day strange indeed.

In order to make my self-imposed deadline for departure to the airpatch, I set my alarm for 0330. Being overly excited at the prospect of seeing The Nuke and celebrating Christmas with her, I had difficulty falling asleep. Finally though, I did fall asleep, my last waking thought being "Oh, well, I can still get at least four hours of sleep..."

Some time later, though not much later, I awakened, glanced at my watch on the night stand and sighed as it appeared (note that word "appeared") that it was time to get up. So I got up, answered the call of nature, and prepared to shave, shower, etc. 'Twas then that I noticed (in my somewhat groggy but semi-awake state) that it was not 0330 but was actually 0230. Yes, I had awakened an hour too soon.

Could I go back to sleep? Nope, not at all. After a couple of minutes of tossing and turning I got up.  I figured, what the heck, I could be all ready to go by the time The Missus Herself got up and then I could fool around on the computer for a bit whilst leisurely drinking a cup of coffee.

Well, yes, that worked. However, when I went to load the bags in the car, I noted that the temperature was hovering around freezing and that it was foggy.

Ruh-roh, says I. What's the problem, asks she. Then I explain how it might be a bit slippery on the roads and that no doubt the aircraft upon which we would be traveling would probably need deicing. Which I explained to her in fairly simple terms, that is, "airplanes don't fly well with icy wings." A concept which she grasped immediately.

(Sarge, what about the gloves? I thought this story was about gloves. - Patience Grasshopper...)

So our flight was delayed by an hour while we awaited our turn to be deiced. Which a hipster a couple of rows up explained to his girlfriend as "they pour hot water on the plane to melt the ice." To which I muttered, "Oh dear me, no, no that's not it at all you maroon." To which the love of my life suggested that I should hold my peace and "Really, you're such an idiot at times..."

Guilty as charged.

All that (he said, finally getting to the point) meant that by the time we got to Ronald Reagan air patch, your beloved OAFS was exhausted, sleepy, and somewhat perturbed. (Especially upon boarding the aircraft and realizing that I was in the grip of the latest airline ticketing scam. That is, you don't get a window seat unless you pay extra for it. I hate sitting in the aisle. Don't care if you like it, yes, I understand why you might, but let me repeat: I. Hate. Aisle. Seats. Gotta have a window, it's who I am.)

Now (as you mutter that I still haven't gotten to the point of this here tale) upon boarding the aircraft, I had stowed my gloves in my backpack. Not in the pockets of my coat. Why you ask, that's not SSOP (Standard Sarge Operating Procedure), what were you thinking?

Well, I wasn't. The non-window seat thing threw me off, so my tired brain malfunctioned and stuck the gloves in the backpack, not the pockets with the perfectly functioning zippers. What could possibly go wrong?

That evening as we took The Nuke's dogs to the dog park, the temperatures had become rather chilly in the great out of doors. The kind of temperatures in which one might want to wear gloves. Which I could not find in the pockets of my coat.

"Honey, have you seen my gloves?" I asked, innocently enough.

"No. Where did you put them?" she replied with a slight tone of exasperation.

Rather than answer, "If I knew that, then I wouldn't be asking now, would I?" I went with the far less likely to get me killed answer, "I don't know. Ah, the heck with it, it's not that cold out." So yes, WSF, I wore my "Air Force gloves," as in "stuck my hands in my pockets."

The next day, The Nuke and I were going to go to the football game. The outdoor football game. For which I had no gloves. (So I thought at the time.)

The Missus Herself: "My gloves are kind of big, see if you can wear those."

As I struggled to put her lady-gloves on my man-hands, The Nuke is chuckling and spouts out, "If the glove doesn't fit, you must acquit." in her best Johnnie Cochran imitation.

As I discover that the gloves will squeeze on and seem to allow some freedom of movement, the two ladies are laughing uproariously at my expense. Humiliated, I follow my daughter out the door and we go to the game.

All week long, I puzzled as to where my gloves might be. Well rested now, I had completely forgotten that my gloves had been stowed in a place which I only used while on board an aircraft, or in packing to get on board an aircraft. My well-rested, somewhat rational, mind assumed that I had left my gloves in my car, or on the plane, or at the airport, or any number of other places. For some odd reason, I could not recall having gloves on the way to the airport. Perhaps they were at home, on the dining room table.

Exhaustion is a bad time to try and store information. I'll say that right now. Needless to say, I eventually found my gloves, the day we were getting ready to return to Little Rhody. In my backpack. Which, as I think back on it, was probably not the time to announce, "Hey, I found my gloves!" Perhaps pretending to "find them" in my car when we got back to the airport would have been the smarter, though deceptive, move. Nope. Not me.

The Nuke: "Dad, you are such a moron."

The Missus Herself: "You're an idiot."

The WSO (upon being told the story by her mom): "Hahaha! Was Dad storming around bellowing that someone had stolen his effing gloves?"

Sigh, the abuse I receive at times. Am I perhaps a tad too "dramatic"? Maybe a bit too "excitable"?

Well, no more than the next guy.

Or not.

Yup, covered in glory once more.

Not.




* The Missus Herself is pretty good about buying me outer apparel with pockets that can be secured, usually with a zipper, sometimes via a snap.