What a day...

Today was a good day. Nothing crazy. Nothing epic. But an Ice Cube day.

I trained my best clients, the kind of sessions where you don’t even check the clock because the energy’s just right. I had a productive meeting with one of my managers, lined up my schedule like a big boy, and for once, I actually got to go home early. No baseball. No lacrosse. No errands. I was gonna play PS5 Astro Bot with Mikey and eat leftovers in peace. Going home early on a Friday is a win. A cold Guinness and a quiet house. Heaven.

I walked through the door, dropped my bag, kissed my wife, showered, and made love like the world wasn’t falling apart outside. I like to do it a couple of times before the kids get home from school. A man has to love his wife when the kids aren’t home. That’s the rule. That’s the rhythm.

Then I showered again, got dressed, and got ready to head to the doctor’s office. I’ve been limping around on a torn meniscus for the last 7 days, the result of me suddenly deciding to run 90 miles in 30 days like I wasn’t 46 years old and training for the goddamn Olympics. At mile 77, snap, crackle, and pop. Game over. No medal. No crowd. Just me, on the side of the road, trying not to cry and looking at my knee like, Really, bro? You too?

Last week was the emergency room and the X-ray. Today was the MRI.

So there I am, dressed, cleaned up, ready to go to my MRI, and I realize: I lost my wallet. Again. Shit.

Let me be clear, this isn’t new. This is a recurring saga. I never keep my wallet in my pants like a normal adult man. I always put it in the front hoodie pocket. Because I’m an idiot. A hopeful, forgetful idiot with a track record.

So I panicked. I did what any half-injured, overly dramatic man would do. I retraced my steps. I had to drive. And my knee hurts like hell when I drive, but I still did a 50-mile round trip in the Mustang, back to work, back to the garage, convinced I must’ve dropped it there. Limped to the vending machine where I last used it, for a goddamn Red Bull. I searched everywhere. Asked everyone. The park’s police. The parking attendants. Nada.

And just as I’m about to re-retrace my steps for the third time, my wife calls. Calm voice. Calm chaos. She had just gotten home from the pool with the kids.

“Some random stranger just knocked on the door,” she says. “And taped the wallet to the front door. No note, no nothing.”

Taped it.

Who does that? Who knocks, delivers, and tapes the damn thing to the door like it’s an Amazon Prime package?

And get this, everything was still in there. My fifty-something bucks in cash, my ID, my medical insurance cards, and two lottery tickets. That’s divine intervention. I have to win now. If I do, I’m tracking down that stranger and giving him a cut. Or at least a bottle of something strong.

I like playing the lotto every once in a while. It makes me feel Dominican. It reminds me of the days I used to work in the bodega with my pops, watching grown men spend their last $3 on a dream. Angie calls me Miguel Sr.

But yeah, this is the second time I’ve lost my wallet this way. And it’s always me. Always the hoodie. And this time? I dropped it somewhere between my car and my front door. I had already made it home.

Thank God it was in Dobbs Ferry. If I had lost it in Manhattan, for a second time, I might never have seen it again.

So yeah, I went to work for nothing. Angie said I just wanted to get away from her and the kids. I told her I’m buying Apple AirTags tomorrow. Maybe two. Maybe three. Maybe I’ll finally start wearing a fanny pack. A manly fanny pack. Angie says it looks suspicious. I say I’m just trying to survive out here. I don’t care what I look like. Or maybe I’ll just start putting the damn wallet in my backpack. Like a sane person.

Anyway, I’m good. I’m happy. I’m just really tired, but I’m happy. I wrote this. I love writing when I’m happy.

Even with a bum knee. Even with an empty workout log. Even with my mind starting to go a little haywire from not lifting or punching. I’m okay. My wife is okay. My kids are okay. They’re sleeping right now. But I can’t sleep. It’s past 10 p.m., and I’ve completely jacked up my circadian rhythm. But it’s not the Red Bull. I swear.

It was the MRI. I was so tired, I fell asleep in the machine. Forty-five minutes of loud clicks and claustrophobic science, and I knocked out. Slept like a baby. I had earplugs and earmuffs, and somehow, my tinnitus disappeared. How wild is that? I can’t sleep when it’s quiet, but put me inside an industrial revolution, medical-grade washing machine? Sweet dreams.

The tech couldn’t believe it. “Brother, how can you sleep?” he said.

I told him, “Brother, I’m a Marine. I’ve slept through helicopter drop zones, bunkers, and bus stations. This was cozy. This was spa day.”

So now I just wait for the MRI results. I’ll rest when I can. I’ll be smart. And soon, I’ll lift something heavy again and be back to feeling like me.

But now, writing this, I know I’m not falling apart. I’m just figuring it out. Still. Always.