Three Positive COVID Tests, Two Lock-Outs & One Missing Wallet

I promise I’m not as irresponsible as it may sound.

To say that I’ve had an unlucky start to the semester is an understatement.

I’ve realized by now that life has its ebbs and flows; sometimes it feels like we’re on top of the world and other times, absolutely nothing seems to work out in our favor. Unfortunately for me, the past month has consisted of the latter.

When I came back to school in mid-January, I arrived in State College on the Sunday before classes started. I was excited to hear that one of my favorite bars downtown had recently begun serving brunch, so I left home pretty early that morning to make it in time to split a breakfast pizza and mimosas with my friends around noon or so.

Once at my apartment complex, I threw my car in park and quickly began to unload several duffel bags worth of new Christmas clothing that I had brought back with me. Somewhere in the midst of making trips back and forth from my car to apartment, I managed to lock myself out. In my t-shirt and moccasins, I stood helpless in the hallway realizing that along with my keys, I had left my winter coat and cellphone in the apartment, too. My roommate, Julia, wasn’t coming back until later that evening, and considering that it was a Sunday, the rental agency’s office wasn’t open to give me a loaner key.

Knowing that my Apple Watch would only be sufficient in sending texts and making phone calls when in close proximity to my phone, I sat in front of my door to be as close as possible where it laid on the kitchen counter inside. I spent several minutes on the phone with my parents - literally talking into my wrist - and decided against hiring a locksmith, but to wait for Julia’s set of keys later that day.

Still determined to go to brunch, I grabbed my ID and debit card out of my car (which thankfully wasn’t locked). I hadn’t unpacked my shoes yet, so I swapped out my slippers for sneakers and threw on a sweatshirt that I found in my trunk. I walked across town to a friend’s apartment in the meantime, and within the hour, I was creating-my-own bloody mary and ordering pizza topped with eggs, peppers, and onions at Doggie’s Pub.

The rest of syllabus week (or “sylly” week as many refer to it as) carried on as usual, and I was just extra cautious of having my keys with me. Julia and I reunited with friends we hadn’t seen over the break and soaked up this last little stretch of time that isn’t typically filled with many obligations for school yet.

At some point during the second week, we received word that a friend of ours had tested positive for COVID-19. Other than some mild symptoms, we were glad to hear that he was doing alright, but slightly concerned that we had been exposed, too. Up until then, I had actually never been tested for the coronavirus before. We headed to MedExpress with hopes of receiving immediate assurance that we were both negative, but we weren’t administered rapid tests.

The next morning, I went to Penn State’s University Health Services clinic on campus and was swabbed up the nose twice: once again for the standard PCR test (providing results within a few days) and once for a rapid test. Nearly 20 minutes later, I sat white-knuckled in my apartment to read via email that I was positive. Over the next few days, the two other send-out test results proved the same.

Beyond having a raspy voice, I was really shocked to learn that I had COVID-19. Just the day before, I ran six miles outside in 25-degree weather. I had heard stories about asymptomatic cases and even knew plenty of people who experienced the same, but it still didn’t feel real.

Julia had actually just received her second dose of the vaccine (thanks to working in healthcare) prior to coming back to school, so her test results came back as negative. During my 10-day quarantine period, she spent time at home in Pittsburgh, anyway, because there was no need to continually expose her just in case.

Within a few days, my morning coffee didn’t taste the same and I couldn’t smell the seafood I had cooked up for dinner. I’m thankful that these persisted as my only symptoms, and I tried my best to stay active and sane within the confines of my apartment. I spent a lot of time on the phone with my family and friends, and luckily didn’t feel like I was missing out on much in the outside world because the entire state of PA seemed to be getting slammed with snow left and right.

This became the first time that I really, truly slowed down my entire life for a week or so. As much as it drove me crazy to sit still, I developed a new hobby of practicing yoga, became consistent in journaling, and tried recipes in my new air fryer (not that I could taste anything that I had made, though).

When my 10 days were up and I was finally granted back freedom, the first thing I wanted to do was celebrate. Julia wasn’t back in State College, so I met up with a few other friends who had also recently just recovered from the coronavirus and had myself a night. I went to what could maybe be considered State College’s most dive-y bar (a hidden gem, nonetheless), The Brewery, and for the first time in almost two weeks, enjoyed drinks and good company.

Yet, this leads me to the next series of unfortunate events: the aftermath.

I woke up the next morning with a horrible gut feeling that I didn’t have my wallet. When I finally managed to get out of bed, I learned that it hadn’t been a dream; to my dismay, my wallet was no longer in my jacket pocket. After calling a friend to confirm that I hadn’t left at it his apartment, either, the only other logical explanation could be that I forgot it at The Brewery.

So, I bundled up and walked through a beautiful, sunny State College feeling hungover and discouraged. I traced the route from my friend’s apartment to the bar, pacing up and down the alley that was now freshly covered in snow thinking that it could’ve fallen out of my pocket on the way.

The Brewery wasn’t going to be open until 8 p.m. that night, so I decided to reach out on Facebook for some answers. Not to mention that this was all occurring on Super Bowl Sunday, and throughout my entire quarantine, I only wished for one thing: Sunday brunch at Doggie’s on the next morning of my freedom. In reality, I went on a wild goose chase throughout the streets and a spree of messaging The Brewery's bartenders back and forth - all without my ID and a zero percent chance of being served at brunch.

Whoever I spoke with on the Messenger app reassured me that if someone turned in a wallet they’d let me know, but I wasn’t able to physically check until they opened much later. Even once I stopped in during the game, no one had found my small, black wallet.

I began the walk back to my apartment, mentally preparing for the new ID and debit card I’d have to now order, when I made another discovery: my hands weren’t feeling a set of keys in my jacket pocket. When I left earlier that day, I was certain of locking up and I was now certain that I was locked out...again.

I’m sure that my dad appreciated me calling him at 9:30 p.m., during the biggest football game of the year, to frantically tell him that in addition to my wallet, my keys were now missing too. In that moment, I thought to myself that it couldn’t possibly be fun to have children and to have an obligation to deal with situations like this. Julia, miles and miles away in Pittsburgh, couldn’t come to my rescue this time, and there was no hope for getting a loaner key. It was hard to even get a hold of a locksmith at that hour, but I called my apartment building’s emergency line and explained the issue. I was told that maintenance would come within 30-40 minutes.

So I sat, defeated once again, outside of my door in the hallway. While waiting, my dad was trying to convince me over-the-phone that if my deadbolt wasn’t locked, it would likely be possible to break in using a credit card. Given that my cards were now gone with my wallet, my friend, Billy, saved the day and tried using one of his. After watching a quick Youtube tutorial of how to break in with this method, he managed to slip it in between the door frame and lock, and the door flung open. My keys were sitting on my bedroom dresser.

I don’t know what happened in those 10 days of isolation, but I’ve come to the consensus that I cannot be trusted to leave my apartment anymore.

The next morning, I ensured that my cards had been canceled, reordered, and that a new license would be processed ASAP. I trudged through the snow and onto campus to receive a new Penn State ID, which I wouldn’t really even need otherwise except that LionCash (aka funds that can be deposited and used at various grocery stores, restaurants around town) would have to serve as my form of payment until my new cards came in the mail. I’ve had several messy experiences in the past, but this experience of being a ‘hot mess’ has to take the cake.

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You might think I’d be glad to hear that my wallet had turned up several days later at The Brewery. In fact, it was discovered on the very same chair that I’d been sitting on the night that it went missing. Judging by the crowd (or lack thereof) that typically hangs out at this establishment, my guess is that no one even used that seat in the meantime. I appreciated them letting me know, but it really came as an even bigger slap in the face knowing that I’d already canceled, and still needed to wait on, all of my cards. I bragged to my mom that I knew where my wallet was all along, yet she was quick to remind me that it was still irresponsible to leave it behind in the first place.

The older I get, the more I learn that these kinds of things just happen. Hopefully this streak of terrible luck ends soon and I'm able to make a habit out of triple checking for my keys, zipping my jacket pockets, and maybe avoiding The Brewery from now on.