That Time I Locked Myself Out... Again

That Time I Locked Myself Out... Again

A True Tale of Keys, Chaos, and Questionable Decisions

It was a bright Saturday morning. Birds chirped, the sun beamed, and I was feeling unusually optimistic—mostly because my favorite brand of cereal was finally back in stock and I had no major responsibilities for the day.

I shuffled into the kitchen in my fuzzy blue bathrobe and poured myself a mountain of cereal. I was halfway through a spoonful when I realized I hadn’t brought in the mail yesterday. So I did what any under-caffeinated, overly confident adult would do: I grabbed the front door handle, swung it open, and walked outside.

Barefoot. No keys. No phone. No pants.

The door clicked shut behind me like it was laughing.

At first, I didn’t panic. Surely, I’d left the door unlocked. I turned the knob.

It didn’t budge.

A wave of dread hit me like a cold draft from the mail slot. I had officially locked myself out. Again. This was not my first time losing a one-on-one match with a doorknob, but it was by far the most undignified. I looked down at my attire—or lack thereof—and sighed. Bathrobe, cereal spoon still in hand, one sock on (don’t ask). I wasn’t even mad. I was just disappointed… in me.

I took a deep breath and tiptoed down the driveway to my mailbox, half hoping the mailman would appear with a crowbar and a kind heart. No luck. Just a stack of coupons and a dental bill I didn’t remember signing up for.

Now I had to make a decision: wait for a neighbor to come outside and risk becoming the subject of the next neighborhood group chat, or try to break into my own house like a discount spy.

Option B won.

I circled the house like a raccoon looking for a loose trash can. All windows were locked—great job, Past Me, way to be security-conscious. I checked the back door, the garage, even the tiny doggy door (no, I did not fit). No entry.

Then I spotted the bathroom window—slightly cracked open.

Bingo.

It was high up, but I was determined. I dragged the patio chair over, climbed up, and managed to wedge my hand inside to push the window further open. The plan was perfect, except for one small issue: I am not Spider-Man. Nor flexible. Nor graceful.

I got one leg in and immediately knocked over a shampoo bottle, which sent a loud clatter echoing through the empty house. Great. Now the whole block thinks I’m a burglar in a bathrobe.

I slipped, flailed, and landed in the tub with the elegance of a wet pancake.

Bruised ego aside, I had made it in.

I stood up, adjusted my bathrobe like a warrior who had just conquered a mighty foe, and strutted back into the living room. My cereal was soggy, my dignity was on life support, and I had three new shampoo bruises. But I was home.

I plopped onto the couch and stared at the door. Then, something caught my eye.

The spare key.

Sitting smugly on the side table. Just three feet from the door. Inside.

I stared at it for a full minute. Then I slowly turned, picked up my phone, and texted my best friend:

“Guess who locked himself out. Again.”

Her reply came instantly:

“Was it you? Again?”

I sent her a photo of my cereal, now the consistency of cold oatmeal, and replied:

“Never speak of this.”

Epilogue: Lessons I Absolutely Won’t Learn

Always carry your keys. Even if you're “just going to the mailbox.”

Don’t trust bathrobes.

The spare key belongs outside the house, genius.

Invest in a smart lock.

Maybe don’t share your humiliating stories with your best friend if she has access to Photoshop.

And finally: If you ever hear a crash coming from your neighbor’s bathroom on a Saturday morning, don’t worry. It’s probably just me. Again.