In the fourteen or so years I lived in Condo Conner I locked myself outside a few times; enough to count on one hand and still have fingers left over.
In the less than six months here at the Facility in the Middle of Nowhere I have now managed to lock myself out three times. What the heck is wrong with me?
It just happened, otherwise I wouldn't be bringing this up. I'm putting laundry in, and Rob [1] comes down stairs and we start chatting. I finish putting in the load and Rob heads outside to smoke a cigarette and I follow him, subconsciously locking the door behind me.
The door closes. “Um, Rob,” I said. “You wouldn't happen to have your keys on you, would you?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh … no particular reason … ”
Fortunately, Rob has a good sense of humor about these things.