Not in the socially inept, friendless sort of way (although that's a bit more accurate than I care to admit), but in the most literal sense possible: I lose things.

Clothing, shoes, tools, keys, cell phones, books and more have all gone MIA throughout my disordered life. I would venture to say pretty much any possession I have ever owned that is smaller than a watermelon has been lost for at least a few days at some point in time.

When I was a dashing teenager attending Manistee High School, I purchased a season pass which allowed me entry to any and all home sporting events. When I lost my wallet, the school replaced the pass, no questions asked, and a friend was kind enough to give me his gently used leather wallet — quite the upgrade over my neon yellow one which employed Velcro to keep it shut.

Sadly, I lost my friend's wallet shortly after, and the new pass with it, and had to assure the MHS powers that be that I was simply a disorganized nitwit and not running a scheme to get free sports passes to sell for a profit before they hesitantly replaced my replacement.

I was without my remote control for the majority of 2021. Each flip of the channel and adjustment of volume required a trip across the living room. I searched everywhere — under every cushion and piece of furniture, in pockets and bags. I scoured all locations both logical and illogical until eventually I found myself looking in the trunk of my car for the darn thing, all to no avail.

After searching every nook and cranny in a 100-foot radius, I came to the only conclusion that made sense: Gray aliens teleported into my house and stole my remote to learn the wonders of human technology. Que sera, sera.

Then, one day while I was elbow-deep in the La-Z-Boy looking for my car keys, I felt something cold and familiar and pulled out my remote!

I assure you, dear reader, I checked that recliner multiple times with no luck. The aliens obviously put my remote there when they were done studying it.

When putting on socks, I merely grab two of a similar length. Today I have a Hanes sock on my left foot and a Nike sock on my right. I have so many individual socks whose mates have vanished that when it comes to matching my socks, I simply threw in the towel. And then I lost the towel.

Being incapable of keeping track of pretty much anything I own isn't all bad, however. In some ways it's kind of like Kyle from the past is leaving gifts for Kyle of the present. I could never experience the exhilarating jubilation of finding a long-lost possession without first feeling the immeasurable melancholy of having lost it.

Any time I open a cupboard, lift a toaster or otherwise disturb any item in my home, I stand the chance of uncovering a treasure or trinket I've long since given up any hope of seeing again.

If nothing else, it's taught me that no matter how bad things get, I need to hang in there. On my darkest days, when it feels like my world is filled with nothing but hardship and sorrow and I want nothing more than the earth to open up and swallow me whole, I just might reach into the sock drawer and accidentally pull out a copy of Robin Williams' "Mrs. Doubtfire" on VHS.

Now, if only I could find my VCR.

Kyle Kotecki is the education reporter for the Manistee News Advocate. He can be reached at kkotecki@pioneergroup.com or 231-398-3110.

I was born and raised in Manistee. I earned a bachelor's degree in English from Grand Valley State University. My hobbies include fishing, reading and playing music.