How I Locked Myself Out — With the Keys in My Hand

It was Tuesday. Or Thursday. One of those T-days where your brain is still buffering from the weekend. I was running late, balancing coffee, a backpack, and existential dread. I did my usual “leave the house” ritual: check for phone, wallet, keys — pat, pat, pat. Keys in hand. Check.

I stepped outside, turned, and slammed the door with the confidence of someone who had their life together.

Click.

Then I froze.

See, I was holding my car keys.

Not my house keys.

My house key was still in the lock… inside. Smirking at me through the window like, “You sure about that move, genius?”

Now I’m standing there, on the porch, fully dressed for work, but mentally dressed for a breakdown. I try the handle. Nope. I check my pockets again like maybe Houdini snuck a spare key in while I wasn’t looking. Nothing.

And this is where it gets better: I try to unlock the door using the car remote. You know. Because clearly, I thought I lived inside a Toyota Corolla.

Eventually, I had to call a locksmith. He shows up, sees me holding keys, and just stares.

“You locked yourself out… while holding keys?”

“Technically, yes,” I said. “But not the keys.”

He nodded slowly. The kind of nod that says, “I’ve seen things, but this… this is new.”

So yeah, I locked myself out — with the keys in my hand. Just not the ones that mattered.