Blame it on the Brain.

It was during the summer of 1984 that I'd last lost my wallet.  I left it in a Tacoma Mall men’s room. 

I know how that sounds. Why would I place my wallet at risk in a public restroom if money weren’t changing hands? Suffice it to say my early twenties were a time of low self-esteem and financial prosperity.

No, actually, I was with that girlfriend at the time. Remember her—the one who insisted I buy a blow dryer and tie a sweater around my neck? While I don’t remember the exact circumstances, it’s possible that she handed me her portable dryer; the one she kept in her purse. She very well may have insisted that I visit the boys’ room to re-apply some product and incinerate my hair to a crispy sheen like hers, and only then could we re-emerge hand-in-hand from between Orange Julius and Squire Shop and freaking own that Tacoma Mall.

So yeah, that was the last time I parted ways with my wallet, back when Reagan was president and her husband incessantly confused Mikhail Gorbachev with his dead Uncle Rusty. 

It was a nice thirty-one-year streak of walletfulness, even longer than Jerry Seinfeld’s impressive no-vomit stint that lasted from June 29, 1980 until February 3, 1994. And that’s why I’ve decided that, even though I am ultimately responsible for maintaining a relationship between my credit cards and my clammy torso, this mishap is hardly my fault.

A lot of other folks could be responsible for this, and I think you may agree once you've read this.

1) Sure, I was a fool for placing it in the front pocket of my new zip hoodie, but my wife was responsible for purchasing a defective product. After 26 years as a preferred Value Village shopper, I would have thought she'd know inadequate pocket depth when she saw it. Apparently not, so I could pin this on her.

2) Even at the risk of losing his livelihood, the cab driver may have found it just too tempting not to pinch my goatskin accessory and all its spoils, including a ten-cent per gallon Safeway fuel discount. With his new identity and a swipe of the red card, he could surprise his family with a free movie rental and two Selsun Blues for the price of one. If Safeway had whale patrons like Vegas does, I’d be a freaking Orca, so this guy scored.

3) I could blame Obama. After all, the guy’s been picking all of our pockets for the last six years, am I right or am I right?

4) My brother took it. This is the most statistically probable answer. Although he seems trustworthy, after all those years in prison, the guy’s got some clever hiding places up his…sleeve. He’s an opportunist, and that wallet had some nicely rounded corners.

At this point, all I know is that the thing just vaporized. After getting up in the morning and not seeing the humbow-sized black Fossil in its usual spot, I obsessively scoured the house for well over an hour. Thank God it wasn’t in the silverware drawer or washing machine when I checked, as that would’ve escalated my issue into the health care realm (please see Ronald Reagan above). 

Losing a wallet is the epitome of a First World problem, though, right? Everything is replaceable, so this too will prove to be but a teensy skin tag on life's dandruff-smothered scalp. And just to inspire you, doggone it if I didn’t turn misfortune on its ear by getting free, two-day shipping on a new fanny pack. 

A light one, for summer.

Get Away From Me, Freak!

I hope you don't mind, but it's time to sound like an old guy. 

Please read on, though, because a lot of you are also old, and if you aren't, this could prove useful. It doesn't hurt to look ahead a little, because as our good friend Russ Wilson likes to say, "The separation is in the preparation."

At age twenty-one, a lot of us would've proven grossly incapable of predicting our lifestyles thirty years down life's unpaved road. I'm pretty sure if I hopped into the DeLorean, sped back to 1984 and asked a certain college junior for a couple of prognostications, it would be clear where the term "shallow pond" was derived. 

Here's what I mean:

So, twenty-one-year-old Tim, what type of car do you picture yourself driving in thirty years?

Wow, that's a long time. That's totally after the year 2000, right? 

Yes, that would be 2014.

Hell, then, I don’t know. It won't be an American car or a minivan, that's for sure. A moped would be sweet, or one of those new Camaros.

Right, but they won't be new in thirty years.

This is boring.

Okay, well, just to let you know, you will In fact drive a minivan. It will be manufactured in Korea, and your daughter will call it "Kiath."

That's bizarre. I'm having a daughter?

Yes, two, actually.

I don't want two daughters. How old are they?

One is a college freshman and the other is in eighth grade.

Listen, man, my fraternity is having a party tonight and I'm pretty sure there will be a few freshman girls hanging out. Thanks for making me think of them as my daughters, ass wipe. I must rise above this. 

Hang on a sec, I need to turn down the stereo. It's hard not to crank Sister Christian on these sweet woofers I just got from Speakerlab. You like Night Ranger, old man?

Yes.

Hey! You're not as crusty as you look.  What else did you want to ask me? I need to run down to 7-11 for some Copenhagen.

Okay, I'll be quick. How about cooking—who will do most of the cooking for your family in thirty years?

I don't know, man. It might just be like the Jetsons where you just push a button and boom—piping hot lasagna. But if that's not the case, if my wife cooks four nights a week, I don't mind ordering pizza the other three. My kids would appreciate it, I'm sure. Gross, did I just say "my wife" and "my kids" in the same sentence? Freaking shoot me.

What if I told you that you'll be the primary grocery shopper and cook for your family? How about if your wife is a fifth grade teacher who works harder than Chris Christie's heart?

Who's Chris Christie? That's a stupid name.

It doesn't matter. You just need to know that your wife will be such a dedicated educator that a couple of times, you'll wonder if she's actually spending an hour before school and three afterward, playing 21 Jump Street with Johnny Depp.

Who's Johnny Depp? That's a stupid name.

Well, he's merely the love of your wife's life, a youthful bad-boy actor who smells of Lucky Strikes and pieces of eight. 

Huh?

Never mind. Listen, I'll let you go, but here's some more food for thought. You've actually gotten a couple of recipes from a naked guy at the YMCA.

What? What's wrong with you?

Sorry, let me explain. You'll often see this guy in the locker room after your morning workout.

Hey, man, the words "morning" and "workout" should never be used together.

Anyway, he's into cooking and he's usually naked when relating recipes to you. You're occasionally nude as well.

Holy shit. Time for you to leave, Uncle Perverick. What the hell recipe did this wanker give you—pulled pork?

Umm, well, yes.

Get your ass out of my bean bag chair and hit the street before I grab my numchucks, got me?

Will do. Take care, clueless colt.

That didn't go well. Hopefully after this experiment, you won't hate yourself like I apparently do.

Playing Adam to New Year's Eve.

Okay, then. The stained dry erase board of another lame duck year is finally wiped clean.

As Dr. Faux, I mean Dr. Phil, is fond of barking at teenage mom meth addicts, it's time to "pull ourselves up by the bootstraps" (insert authoritative Texas drawl here), and move on into 2011.

I don't really consider myself middle-aged anymore, since it's improbable that I'll live to be ninety-six, so from here on out, I'd like to be labeled as "accumulaged." This is the period in my life where stuff begins building up: Christmas ornaments, computers, belly fat, trips to the bathroom. I've even imagined a way to promote this golden, new era—"Try the new Tim. Now with a third more prostate tissue!"

One of the benefits of witnessing my forty-ninth New Year is the slow mellowing of New Year's Eve expectations. As a young adult, we all expected to have the party of the year—to sing, to dance and when the ball drops, to passionately engulf the face of either your soul mate or whomever was closest at the time.

New Year's Eve, 1984, was my watershed party experience. I'd had a girlfriend for about a year-and-a-half, and things weren't going so well. She suggested getting dressed up and going to Pioneer Square in downtown Seattle to usher in the new year, shoulder-to-shoulder with throngs of drunken strangers. After that, we'd hop in a cab, basking in the glow of a re-kindled, re-dedicated relationship.

It looked good on paper, so I reluctantly agreed. From our earliest days together, this girl had tried her best to transform me into a GQ cover guy. She pressed hard to rid my wardrobe of t-shirts and jeans; a trip to campus meant checking my loafers to make sure the pennies hadn't slipped out, popping my collar and tying a pastel colored sweater around my shoulders. My friends had teased me relentlessly, but I had brushed them off, lamely contending that she was "improving" me. I do wish, however, that they hadn't run into me buying that blow dryer at the drugstore.

Anyway, yes, I now realize—red flags, all. Relationships shouldn't be contingent upon one person "fixing" the other. And even then, I felt like a buffoon as we rode the cab downtown. It was freezing cold, but I was firmly instructed not to deviate from the winning polo shirt/ torso wrap combo. By the end of the evening, I could no longer feel my nipples. I was afraid they may have simply broken off after bumping into someone, and I'd find them the next day, looking like little pieces of turkey jerky in the waistband of my Jockey for Hims.

We each did our best to pretend to have a good time, but I think we both realized the absurdity and futility of our situation.

That night twenty-six years ago, I vowed to never immerse myself among a mob in an attempt at manufacturing fun. By the following year, my girlfriend had been replaced by a companion who's stuck by me, in the comfort of my own home, every New Year's Eve since:

Dick Clark.