Someone Stole My Laptop

Someone stole my laptop computer on Wednesday. It sucked. Or, rather, it sucks, as I imagine I'll be pretty upset about it for quite some time. In fact, right now, as I type on a different computer, I can't help but strike the keys pretty HARD AS I WONDER HOW AND WHY SOMEONE TOOK MY DAMN LAPTOP.

I mean, who wouldn't be upset, right?

The laptop was a thoughtful gift (from Bridget), a nice piece of equipment (MacBook Air), and something with personal information and meaning (photos, documents, and passwords, for example). So I think I'm completely rational and understandably upset about the experience.

What happened? How did someone take it?

I was at a meeting in downtown Chicago on Wednesday afternoon that ended at about 4:30. I closed my laptop, put it in the sleek carrying case, and put it in my carry-on luggage, which was the only bag I had for the one-night trip. I said farewell to my colleagues, and made my way outside for the three-block walk for the train station. I bought a ticket, hopped aboard the crowded train, put my bag at my feet, and started looking forward to a quick dinner at Chili's because, well, I like Chili's. (Whatever. Don't judge me.) Stops flew by as my mind wandered to quesadillas and my iPhone. I checked email, scanned Facebook, and caught up on the day's news. All was well ...

As the last stop (the airport) neared, I double-checked my bag to make sure I had everything. I don't really know why I did, but I just like to be sure I was all set. As I peeled back the zipper, I felt my stomach drop. No laptop. I stood up, threw the bag down on the train seats, and rummaged around the inside. No laptop. I took out my shoes, my jeans, my shirts. People stared. No laptop. My stomach dropped even further.

I got to the airport and looked three more times. Maybe there's a hidden pocket. Maybe if I look once more. Maybe if I empty everything in the middle of the airport and pull my hair a little harder. Nothing. I called back to the meeting space and security was kind enough to check the room and the entire floor. Nothing. After a panicked call to Bridget, I was resigned to the reality: Somehow, someone reached into my bag when I wasn't paying attention and snatched my laptop. I had been, in the parlance of our times, "apple picked." Son of a bitch.

I called the police department, filed a claim, and settled in for the quick flight home. (Of course, it was delayed for an hour because of weather and then for 20 minutes at the gate when we landed because the universe is hilarious.)

When I finally got home, I was exhausted, annoyed, and, mostly, angry with myself. I was mad that I hadn't been more careful, mad that I hadn't been more vigilant, and mad that I was such an idiot. I changed my passwords, tried to erase the computer using "Find iPhone," and then sulked some more.

On Thursday morning, my thoughtful colleagues shared my disgust. One person put it well: "Yeah, I had a really expensive camera stolen one on trip. Afterwards, I wished there had been two of me, so I could punch myself." I huffed and puffed through the workday, and came home angry on Thursday evening. I'm never going to Chicago again. I really wish I had my laptop right now. God, I'm so stupid!

Then, as my pregnant wife walked in the door with a smile and Oscar put his head on my lap, it hit me: It's just a laptop. It's just a piece of equipment. It's just a thing. The really important stuff was right in front of me. And sometimes, it takes an awful event to make you realize just how lucky you are to have the life you do.

I'm going to do my best to remember that every day -- especially when the next bad thing happens.

P.S. Also, it's a good idea to have renter's insurance. Bridget's brilliance strikes again.