Rebel without a key

I can’t find my keys. Ever. For the most part, if they’re not in the little box by the door (they never are), they’ll be in one of the following places: the pocket of one of my coats, in the murky depths of one of my bags, or - more frequently than I’d like to admit - left in the lock. That’s tier 1, to use the most modern of parlances. It’s the best of a bad bunch. Then there’s tier 2. Not ideal, but we can work with it. Tier 2 areas include the shelf in the kitchen, the kitchen worktop, the back pocket of my jeans. If there’s no joy, we step reluctantly into tier 3 - this is where things begin to get scary. Common tier 3 hotspots look like this: next to the sink in the bathroom, the top of the toilet, the mantelpiece, my desk - think any random surface. 

And so on to the final tier. 

This is quite simply a terrifying landscape; one in which anything is possible. There’s a kind of horror film vibe about this tier - echoes of someone slowly spiralling into madness. If you want to find the keys in tier 4, you need to think like a maniac. You need to think outside the box - far outside the box. You need to set fire to the box and watch it burn, while you cackle and rub custard into your hair. It goes a little something like this: in the cutlery drawer, on a chair that’s been pushed back under the table, on a bed (nestled in the duvet), on top of a cereal box, in a narrow gap between two books on a shelf, inside a glove for Christ’s sake - and my favourite - simply discarded on the floor, just about concealed under the edge of the sofa. Sneaky. Most of the above also goes for my phone. It’s a nightmare, a daily nightmare. And I have nobody to blame but myself. Why do I do it? Why? Am I simply the world’s most boring masochist? 

As if to highlight my magnificent ineptitude at holding on to my things, I live with someone who is the diametric opposite. He never has to search for anything. We never have to wait for him by the front door while he stampedes around the house like a frenzied goat repeatedly screeching ‘where are they?’, interspersed with ‘for fuck’s sake’ and ‘why is this my life?’ What’s the secret of his zen-like existence? Like all the most elusive things in life, it’s painfully, annoyingly simple: he just puts the keys in the same place every single day. He pulls the key from the lock, takes a few steps in and puts them into the box (which, incidentally, he calls the ‘key box’ - how’s that for clarity?) So I try, time and time again. Yet somehow I am incapable of mastering it. There must be more to it.

I ask him - like an awestruck apprentice - I ask this guru, this master of organisation and serenity to impart his wisdom, so that I too may one day be able to simply pick up my keys and leave the house. But there really is nothing more to it, he insists, as he pops his coat onto the same hook he uses every day, and slides his shoes into the shoe rack. Then it hits me. This isn’t really about keys at all. It’s about something entirely different. For one: the excitement factor. Entirely subconscious of course - I’m not saying that I’m having a good time whilst on my 6th key hunt of the week. But I do feel jubilant when I find them. And, on the rare occasion that they’re actually in the key box, I feel positively ecstatic. Ultimately you can’t have the highs without the lows. Forget base-jumping - if you want a life-affirming thrill just chuck your keys into a room, then spend an hour looking for them.

Then there’s my rebellious nature. Not the kind of rebellion that affects change or helps people or alters the course of history, you understand - nothing admirable or noble or courageous. Rather the kind that is entirely futile, that serves only to satisfy a profoundly childish resistance to anything perceived to be conforming. When I was 11 I took umbrage against the notion that right-handed people are supposed to hold forks in their left hand and knives in their right. Why must I use my left hand to hold a fork? Who says? We’ll see about that! I immediately began using my right hand to hold my fork, a habit which stuck. To this day, I still hold my fork in my right, and my knife in my left hand. Fuck you cutlery police! It’s pathetic, really. 

And so to the keys, where I believe this element is (again subconsciously) at play. Put the keys in the key box? In a box which you’ve actually labelled a ‘key box’? You’re mugging yourself off mate! That box is telling you to put the keys in it - you don’t have to do what you’re told! Why not get creative, do your own thing, stick it to the man!

Finally there’s my inability to follow any kind of system or routine. There are two types of people in this world: those who create systems, following simple rules to make life easier for themselves, and those who put the lid back on the milk without screwing it on. 

Every morning my husband gets up at the same time. He turns on the same light (cue Nosferatu-like recoiling from me), brushes his teeth, gets in the shower. He goes downstairs to put his porridge on, comes back up to get dressed, spends five minutes cuddling the children, then back downstairs to eat his (now just right) breakfast. When he’s finished, he picks up a banana and places it in the outside pocket of his bag, he takes his coat (always on the same peg), picks up his keys (in the key box obviously), his wallet (next to the key box), bids us all goodbye, and leaves. With the exception of the songs he sings in the shower, this routine never changes. It’s soothing to listen to as I lie in bed for an extra 10 minutes. His rhythm is consistent, like clockwork. He’s calm, light, serene. Never rushing, never panicked, never late. My morning does not look like this. 

I get up and all bets are off. I might have a shower or decide to have one later. I might do some stretches. I might screech ‘get out of bed’ or wake the kids up by skipping into their room, singing. I might drink some water. I might get dressed or just get half-dressed, choosing instead to carry the remaining items of clothing downstairs with me. I might eat breakfast, I might not. After all the mights, comes the only certainty: hunting for a misplaced jumper, the other sock, keys, purse, phone, hats, gloves - before the inevitable onset of panic, chaos, and anarchy. What to do?

I decide to create a routine. The night before, I make a plan: to do certain things in a certain order. I make sure the keys are in the box, I put everything I need by the front door. I make sure all hats, gloves and scarves are where they should be, I even fill the children’s water bottles and get PE kits ready. I wake up and I’m ready. I do some stretches, wash, get fully dressed before going downstairs. I get the lunches ready, drink a coffee, get everyone to the front door, casually pick up my keys (my phone’s already in my back pocket), and off we go. It feels like I’ve just done witchcraft. I’m calm, the kids are calm, everyone has everything they need. I’m on fire, I’m a go-getter, I’ve got my shit together. I could probably be the CEO of a fortune 100 company now. We’re actually early! It took a lot of conscious effort but it was all worth it. Great, sorted. I’ll just do this then. 

I manage it for two days. On the third, I come downstairs in my bra, brushing my teeth, clutching the rest of my clothes in a tangled bundle. It’s over, I can’t do it. I tried, God knows I tried (for 48 hours) but there’s something wrong with my sticking power or my mental focus or my neural pathways. It feels like I’m trying to wrestle a writhing squid into a jam jar. It just won’t fit. As I place the lid back on the milk, ready to screw on at a later date (in your face, milk pigs), I have an epiphany. This is my routine. 

Doing whatever takes my fancy, in any order, is my routine. There’s no point creating a structure for myself because even if I’m the one who’s set the rules, I have to break them. As soon as something becomes an instruction, a must, a set path, I want to burn it down and dance like a devil in the embers. How predictable. I’m in love with chaos. I see calm over there, and I think I want it; but it takes too much effort, a tireless consciousness and mindfulness that I’m just not capable of. And, on some deep level, I like it: the disorder, the chaos, the mess. I’m terrified of routine, of habit, of sameness. 

But if you rarely get fully dressed in the morning, isn’t that a routine? If you’re looking for your keys every day, isn’t that a habit? Shit. It’s inescapable. Maybe I’ll have to mix things up a bit and start putting my keys in the key box.