My wife and I went to the gym, and when we got there, I started to put my earbuds in before realizing I didn’t have my phone. Figuring I must have left it on the kitchen counter, I proceeded with my workout without anything to listen to. Not a big problem.

When we got home 90 minutes later, the phone wasn’t in the kitchen. Or the bedroom. Or the dining room. Or any of the bathrooms. I know because I had Martha call my phone, but as I moved through the house, I couldn’t hear it ringing. We went through this two more times. Nada.¬†Then she walked around, checking every possible surface, drawer, and seat cushion, with the same result.

That’s when I started worrying I’d left the phone somewhere else — except I hadn’t left the house that day except to go to the gym. So, I used the Find My app on her phone to see where mine was. The answer: my home address. Big help.

Unfortunately, Find My couldn’t offer more detail, like where in the house the damn iPhone was! I’m not sure I want Apple to have completely mapped out the rooms of my house and added a bright red arrow signifying the precise location of the device. But at that moment, I wouldn’t have minded.

So, I did the walk-through again and came up empty, my annoyance level rising dramatically with every passing minute. It’s not that I have a desperate need to have my phone in my hands at all times, but the feeling was the same as on those rare occasions when I’ve misplaced my keys or wallet.

That’s when it hit me. Perhaps the phone had slipped out of the pocket of my shorts on the way to the gym and was still in the car. I had looked under my seat at the beginning of this misadventure, but hadn’t checked that space between the seat and the center console. It’s a tight squeeze, but maybe the phone slipped down there.

Sure enough, that’s where I found it — and the screen was on, notifying me that I’d missed three calls from Martha.

Yeah, I know, I was there. But you weren’t.