Thou shalt not cause excess stress on an old man with a heart and bladder that don’t work very well. Yay Pacemaker/Defibrillator and SPC (you can look that one up under Medical Acronyms).

I tell myself that commandment often. But tonight? I broke it big time.

Friday is our 61st wedding anniversary. At Marjorie’s request, I gave her an early gift: a Powerball lottery ticket. Jackpot—$850 million.

I know, I know. It’s nothing more than voluntary taxation. But I’m a good husband (I must be, if she’s put up with me for 61 years), so I bought $20 worth of Powerball tickets. I could practically hear the toilet flush as I paid for them.

The drawing was at 10:59 PM. At 10 sharp, I went to fetch my wallet, where I had carefully placed those “valuable” tickets. I opened the top drawer of my bureau.

“Sheeeit. It ain’t there.”

I swear I felt Sparky, my pacemaker, skip a beat or two.

Panic mode engaged.

I searched the usual spots. Nothing.
I retraced my steps from earlier that day. Publix trip. Groceries. Another anniversary card (because I’d already lost the first one I bought a month ago). God I’m old.

Then it hit me—I might have left the wallet in the car. I’ve done that before.

Problem was, I was already “in for the night.” So I threw on a few clothes, grabbed a flashlight, cuz it was gonna be really dark at ten-thirty at night. Not many lights.

Nope. Not in the car either. Damn.

Hobbled back upstairs on a slow elevator, dejected.

Now the real dread kicked in. Losing a wallet is a nightmare: ID, driver’s license, credit cards, debit cards, too much cash (fresh from the ATM, of course). I looked online: What to do if you lose your wallet.

More reason to panic.

First thing on the list? Call every credit card company and freeze your accounts. Guess where the phone numbers are. Yep, on the back of the cards. Which were safely tucked inside my missing wallet. Heavy sigh!!

It’s gotta be around here somewhere.  Marjorie had joined the search with no luck. I went back to my bedroom, determined to check every inch again.

Finally, back to the same bureau drawer where I always keep my wallet. The first place I looked an hour ago. I dug deeper this time, shoved a few things aside, and EUREKA.

There the SOB was. Hiding in the back.

Big sigh of relief. Quick celebration with Marjorie. And just in time to catch the Powerball numbers.

You guessed it—didn’t win squat.

But somehow, I still felt like a winner. I’d found my stupid wallet.

Wait a minute. The wallet ain’t stupid. I am.

Panic por nada. (Who says I can’t speak Italian?)

Enuf.