O Wallet, Where Art Thou?

Today my wallet was stolen --- either right from my office desk, or perhaps worse, swiped from my purse just feet away from me while I clamored to get a photo opp. Either way, it makes you think. It doesn't make me angry. It doesn't make me vengeful. I work in the center of one of the poorest cities in the nation, in one of the wealthiest states in the nation, it's not surprising.

However, what it does make me is curious. Who is it that is walking around with my tan leather Ralph Lauren wallet ... full of many, many random receipts, lots of store credit cards that were never used, but merely fill up the spaces designed for holding cards because I thought it looked cooler. It has the usual suspects of course --- my license, which means I can look forward to a beautiful afternoon at the DMV to replace it, my medical and dental cards which I literally just received, random business cards and other administrative randomness. It has my college ID, which I use, and would have continued to use, as long as I could pass for an 18-year-old college student (not a difficult task) to get the college discount wherever offered. Damn. My ID from Queensland University of Technology, a back up if the UNH ID didn't fly for student train or movie tix. Damn.

Though I'm sure Mr. (or Ms.) thief was much more concerned with the plastic cards with the Visa logos, there were also some other treasures in there that they'll never even appreciate. A $2 bill from my Gramma that I've had in my wallet for many years to bring me good luck. Okay, maybe I spent the one she gave me many years ago in a desperate coffee fiend moment, but she did give me another last Christmas and the meaning of luck still remains. A $20 bill from the Easter Bunny I just got Sunday. Yes, I'm 26 years old and the Easter Bunny---a.ka. Mom---still gives me an Easter basket. I was saving that for a delicous Friday night artichoke pizza. C'est la vie I suppose. But no matter what, the thought of someone walking around with my IDs, my photos, my bizarre ticket stubs and receipts I hold onto gives me the creeps. Where is my wallet now? Picked through and tossed in a Hartford curbside gutter? Being pawned off to gain an illegal immigrant a life in the states?

I'd like to think that my $20 and $2 bills went to help a father feed his hungry kids or buy a young girl a new collared shirt to wear to a job interview she just landed. However, when the maliscious charge came through for $154 at Smokers' Depot on Asylum Ave all hopes for that went down the tubes, or rather, up in smoke?

Maybe it'll turn up. Maybe not. But what I wouldn't do to roll back the security tapes and see what kind of journey this little piece of me is on ...