Missing: Has Anyone Seen My Credit Card?

I confess to having an estranged relationship with a credit card. More often than not it disappears for days, weeks or more.  These times of separation fill me with angst. It carries my name but doesn't answer when I call.  When I pine for the sensation of its raised plastic numbers, the card avoids me.

This dysfunctional relationship is the result of my thought process. My mind meanders down a stream of consciousness that avoids the present.  Credit cards never float in that mental body of water. Therefore, it is not really my fault cards go missing.  I blame the president.  Isn't it the American way?  

I have read that 7 out of 10 Americans own credit cards. If my experience is normal, then five of those 10 have no idea where their Master Card is at this moment. It may be difficult to fathom, but credit cards have been known to leap out of my wallet, dive into crevices and sneak under a sofa cushion.

Whenever I call a credit card company to report a lost card, they immediately recognize my telephone number.  Before I explain my dilemma, the service rep, located somewhere in India, will coo softly: "Hi, Mr. Roy.  Should I send your replacement credit card to the same address?"  It is humiliating. 

Once my bride and I chauffeured my Mom to lunch at her favorite Italian restaurant in San Antonio.  When the check arrived, I explored my pants pocket for my American Express. (I am only allowed to lug around a single credit card as a precaution against losing an entire wallet full of plastic.)

My face blushed bright red after I came up empty handed. My bride, who has dealt with my peccadillo for more than a half-century, reflexly ticked off a list of possible places I could have left my card. "Perhaps it's in your car," she suggested with a hint of exasperation. 

I returned to the car and strip searched my vehicle.  Nothing.  As I was returning to the restaurant, I spotted a shiny object in the parking lot.  I fetched it. Viola!  It was my wandering credit card. However, it looked like it had been crushed by a road grader. Another call to India.  

Days later a new American Express appeared in the mail.  I decided to make a copy of the card, since the folks in India always insist I provide the numbers on the misplaced card. Smart, huh?  About a week later, I searched my wallet for the AE rectangular object.  It had gone MIA.

For weeks, I explored every drawer, sofa, chair, vehicle and pair of pants. Panic set in.  This would be so humbling to admit to Dianna that I lost a card before I ever used it.  I refused to dial India.  My alibi always is the card isn't lost, it is just hiding in plain view.  Denial is the first sign of senility.

One day, I went to my copier-fax-printer and lifted the lid to copy a document.  Sitting on the glass plate was a silver American Express card.  When I had made the copy weeks ago, I had forgotten to retrieve the card.  All of India was celebrating my good fortune. AE likely declared an employee holiday.

These tales of lost cards are only the most egregious ones.  Recently, I was stuck in a long line at the Costco gas pumps. Finally, I inched my car to the gas pumps.  I reached in my wallet.  No Costco Visa. I was hemmed in with no ability to maneuver my car.  I steamed until I was able to exit the queue.

Back home, I alerted Dianna, always the most diplomatic of conversations.  "Could I borrow your Costco Visa?" I pleaded, praying for a sympathetic response.  "Where's your card?" she persisted.  I shrugged and flashed a pitiful look.  She handed over her card with a shake of her beautiful head.  

I conducted an investigation with all the determination of an FBI manhunt.  Weeks passed.  One day, while vacuuming my car, I stuck the hose underneath the back of the driver's seat.  The hose hit something.  I levered the seat forward.  There was my Costco Visa. And also my American Express.

I had been unaware the AE card had taken leave of my wallet. The only good news was Dianna just knew about the AWOL Visa card. Sometimes the god of Credit Cards feels empathy for me. But it is usually a temporary reprieve.  

Years ago, we dined with friends Wayne and Barb Alexander.  When the check arrived, we agreed to split the bill.  We handed over our credit cards to the waiter, who returned shortly with receipts to sign. We scrawled our signatures, picked up our cards and both returned home.

A day later, Dianna and I flew to Atlanta for a trip to The Masters golf tournament in Augusta, Georgia. We stayed at a resort about halfway between Atlanta and Augusta.  As we were preparing to drive to Augusta, my wireless phone trilled.  It was Wayne calling.

"Hey, Drewski," Wayne greeted.  "I think you have my Master Card."  I fumbled for my wallet and withdrew my Master Card.  Clearly printed on the front of the plate was Wayne Alexander.  "Uh, yeah, I have you card. Do you have mine?"  "Yes," Wayne replied.  I was relieved.

My reprieve was temporary.  "You haven't used my card, have you?" Wayne inquired.  A moment of silence ensued to collect my fleeting thoughts.  "Hmm, I guess I did a few times," I sheepishly admitted. Turns out I had charged hundreds of dollars and signed my name.  No one had noticed, including me.

My only solace was my Master Card was NOT lost.  I knew exactly where it was.  At Wayne's house in San Antonio. The rest of the trip Dianna assumed the credit card responsibilities.  Do you blame her? Poor lady must get tired of hearing me ask: "Have you seen my credit card?"

I am chagrined that credit cards aren't the only items dispatched to a lost and found department.  Golf clubs, reading glasses, cameras, a shirt or two, a couple of Crosses on a gold chains are among the dearly departed. Thankfully I can report I have never lost a pair of underwear.  Not yet anyway.

My son Derek and daughter-in-law Erika took notice of my flawed persona and one Christmas gifted me  a Tile, a bluetooth tracker designed to locate your possessions.  I put the plastic device in the case where I kept my reading glasses.  I had this regrettable habit of leaving the glasses on airplanes.

Over time, the Tile proved useful in locating my glasses: in my car, in my house, at a restaurant.  But even the Tile could not protect me forever.  After a trip to Hawaii, I was homebound on a flight to Dallas. When I reached the airport, I frantically searched my traveling case for my glasses.

No glasses.  Ah, but I had my tracker, which was linked to my wireless device. I pulled out my iPhone and checked the Tile app.  My glasses were at the airport in Maui.  Great!  I immediately dialed lost and found at the Maui airport and reported my glass case was in the lounge area.

Days droned without a word.  I called several times over the next few weeks only to be greeted with the same news that my glasses had not been located.  It was a crushing defeat when I learned not even technology could bail me out.  I solved the glass problem by having cataract surgery in both eyes.

I just wish there was a surgical procedure to cure my credit card blues. That's it, I need an implant. (Not that kind, you awful people!) Credit Card chips inserted in both hands.  If you have a name of an implant surgeon, please forward it to me. The call centers in India will be grateful.