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Four days after turning 70 and I'm realizing my worst fears as I succumb to senility. And the proof: I've lost my wallet. This morning as I surfed the net, I noticed I had a message on Facebook. An ex-goalie, who played for me, wrote, "Coach Murphy. They have found your wallet."

I scoured my apartment and it wasn't anywhere. I left my place one time yesterday to cross the street to buy groceries at HEB. I pulled my debit card out of my wallet to pay the bill. Therefore, I dropped my wallet somewhere between the checkout stand and the front door of my apartment, hardly more than 100 yards in distance.

I sent my ex-goalie a message an hour ago, but it's 8:30 a.m. and he may be recovering from New Year's Eve two days ago. I checked his Facebook and he included a phone number in his personal information, which I have called several times without success.

"They have found your wallet," he wrote in his post. Who is they? I walked across the street into the store and asked for the manager. I explained my predicament. He excused himself to check inside the office but exited without success.

"Fuck!" I thought. "Shit!" I kept thinking. I live lightly and my wallet is thin, but it contains my driver's license, my debit card, my insurance card, my bus pass, a $200 check and $50 in cash. If my ex-goalie knew to call me, my license must remain.

When our lives are inconvenienced and it all becomes about ourselves, the facts that Trump has only 18 days left in his administration and 350,000 Americans have lost their lives due to COVID take an prompt backseat to your circumstances.

"Chingao" as we say in Spanish. Do I need to call the bank and put a stop on my debit card, which contains a chunk of cash? Why can't my ex-goalie answer? I remember the game he allowed three goals in the second half and we blew a 2-0 lead and lost. No matter the simplicity you choose to pursue in your existence, there are complications every day.

I look at the bright side. I am not dealing with a tragedy. Nobody has died. Family and friends are sleeping soundly. After several days of suffering from a variety of maladies, I'm feeling better. The day is crisp and clear and may evolve into a perfect evening for a game of tennis. If not, there will be no excuse for not taking an hour walk. We are no different than sharks: We have to keep moving.

I take a deep breath. I had two pieces of toast, a banana, orange juice and a cup of tea for breakfast. I'm going to bake chicken for lunch. Besides the option of tennis or walking, I have no idea about my activities for the rest of the day except that my life remains unsettled until I have my wallet.

Answer the phone! Message me! Damn! I don't need this shit, but I am no longer a young man. I'm 70. How long before this forgetfulness reduces me to a vegetable and I no longer recognize the faces of my own sons? The golden years are a shiny object. We're lucky if we have a pocketful of pennies when we enter our eighth decade.

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