Q: Since the major things in my life — family, friends, health — are A-OK, what could I possibly complain about?

A: The minor things, of course.

Ultimately, I know I can handle all the big disappointments, reversals and losses. Sure, I’ll pay some dues, but I will get back on track, and I always have. And while I may not be traveling the smoothest course in the meantime, I will eventually be cruising full speed ahead, damn the torpedoes.

But what takes a king-size bite outta my psyche and puts me on the verge of the screaming abdabs is the small, inconsequential hassles, especially a bunch of them in a row. The past week was a textbook example.

It started on Sunday eve. I’d fed the animals, had sat down for my din and reached for my book when — Surprise! Surprise! — it wasn’t by my chair, where I always put it. Or more exactly, where I always put it till I don’t.

So now that I knew where the book wasn’t, all I had to do was find where it was. Which with lost things is a whole lot easier said than done. Or in this case, was bloody impossible.

Believe me, I looked. I’ll spare you the details of my search, except to say my thoroughness would’ve put the EnCon officers to shame. After hours of looking high, low, and in between, the only thing I had to show for them was frayed nerves and fulminating agita.

You might be thinking, What’s the big deal? It’s just a book.

That might be true, except for two things. One, it was a great read and I was halfway through it. So to a compulsive reader like me, it was like being torn out of Paradise and dropped smack dab in the middle of Reality. Which if you think about it, is exactly what it was.

And two, it was a library book.

Here’s the thing. I come from an extended family of book lovers and have been going to the library my entire life — even before I could read, having been shlepped there by my bibliophiliac mother. So to me the library isn’t just a place where I get books, but a safe haven, a community center, and a cultural and historical icon.

So as for losing the book, itself? It’s not like losing a book of my own. That happens from time to time, and it’s no biggie. But a library book is a whole ‘nother matter.

Lest you wonder, it’s not about the money — I’ll gladly cough up the required mazuma. It’s that I’ve screwed up and in the process have let down a bunch of peeps who now can’t read the book till its replacement arrives. And while that might not seem a big deal to you, it nagged at me round the clock. A lot of that nagging was — as it is every time I lose something — a self-administered butt-kicking that I could’ve avoided the whole shtuss if I weren’t so spacey (and always have been).

Sure, I’ll get over it. But in the meantime, I didn’t. Instead, I was walking around listening to that little voice in my head telling me what an ijit I was, while also listening to what I thought was my stomach acids raising hell with what’ s left of its lining, after a lifetime of agonizing over lost things.

That was Sunday, the supposed day of rest, which it clearly wasn’t.

–

Monday, Monday …

–

Next was Monday — another day of both rotten luck and rotten disposition.

After rising late and sharing a leisurely breakfast hour with the critters, I was ready to leave home and head to the office for a few hours of writing and shmoozing (though probably more of the latter than the former). I threw on a bunch of schmattas and got my stuff together.

Pens? Check. Paper? Check? Glasses? Check. Cash? Check. Knife? Check.

And on it went till I got to car keys.

Car keys? Car keys? Car Keys? Car keys?

The hell! They, like my book, were not in their usual place — or in any place. At least in any place I looked. And look I did, believe you me.

Here’s the story with my car keys: The door key and the ignition key are not interchangeable. At one point I had three of each, but due to my inability to keep track of things, I now have only one of each. Or at least I had only one of each till Monday, when I ended up with only one in total — the ignition key.

So what does that mean? A few things. The most obvious is I can’t lock my car doors, which is bad enough by itself. But there’s an additional hassle, maybe even a bigger one. It is that my dogs can lock the doors when they’re in the car and I’m not. And just FYI, over the years I’ve gotten locked out twice — by two different dogs. Of course I can make sure that won’t happen if I just keep a window open wide enough for me to reach in. And if it’s wide enough for my arm, it’ll also be wide enough for rain, sleet, hail and snow.

So now to tally the losses: I’ve got one lost book, one lost key, and one almost-lost mind.

That was Monday. Things couldn’t have gotten worse on Tuesday, could they? Big hint: If you believe that, don’t bet on it.

–

The coup de grace

–

Tuesday was as humdrum and uneventful — a refreshing change from the previous two. I attended to my usual chores: Chillin’ in Nori’s, shmoozing in the Enterprise, wandering the streets of My Home Town sans purpose or direction. There was only one thing I had to do, which was vote in the village election, and which I’d saved for late afternoon, on my way home.

I diddy-bopped my bad self into the town hall, finally feeling good about myself, knowing there’s no way to screw up voting. All you need is to be registered and be able to color within the lines, two things I knew I had going for me.

But what I didn’t know was what I didn’t have going for me and which I found out when I got at the sign-in table. It was this: My name was not on the voting roster.

How could that be? Did the village voting cartel do a Dope imitation and somehow lose my name? Of course not.

The answer is as obvious as the snot locker on my face: I don’t live in the village. And I haven’t for the past 48 years. And thus I haven’t voted in a village election for 48 years. Yet, somehow, that wee bit of information had slipped through the cracks of my cerebrum, leaving me standing there, as obvious and out of place as teetotaler at Oktoberfest.

Burning with embarrassment and self-loathing, I bid everyone a very brief farewell, turned, and hauled out of there before I could hear any snickerings at my expense. Then I hopped in my unlocked car and headed to Aldi, to cop enough ice cream to soothe my troubled soul.

I’d just gotten in the store and was headed to the freezer, when I ran into my pal Joe Garso, standing by the avocados, a look of confusion on his face.

“Hey Joe,” I said, “wuzzup?”

He didn’t say anything, just stood there frowning. Finally he spoke.

“You ever get to the store, buy the stuff you came for, but know there’s one thing you forgot?”

“Of course,” I said.

“That’s what’s happening to me,” he said, “and it’s bothering me.”

“I understand,” I said.

“No,” he said, “it’s really bothering me.”

Really bothering him? As if he knows what being bothered about forgetting things is even like? I’m still in the middle of a three-day pity party, mixed with seething rage at both myself and the world at large, and he’s bothered?

I wanted to put him right in his place and scream that if he thinks he’s having memory hassles, he has no idea what he’s talking about. Me? I lost a library book and my last car key, and forgot where the hell I’ve been living for the past half-century. Meanwhile he’s whining about forgetting the ketchup or hamburger or some other damned thing.

The, just as I was about to put him in his place, I looked at him.

And there he was — the very picture of wide-eyed innocence. Bright-eyed, pleasant, unassuming. Not a speck of cynicism or negativity in that boy. If anything, he looked like an older version of a Norman Rockwell kid. You know, the one with a homemade slingshot in his back pocket and a frog stuffed in his shirt, on his way to the swimming hole.

And I was going to unload my anger on him? Especially since my anger was at myself for being such a chucklehead, rather than at anyone else being to blame.

After I regained my composure, I don’t remember exactly what I said to him, but it was typical of what one should say at such times. You know — “The sun’ll come up tomorrow,” or “Hey, it happens to all of us,” or even “You’ll think of it, no sweat.” Those soothing cliches that mean nothing, but offer some consolation, however slight.

The important thing is I didn’t vent my personal misery on Joe, and I’m glad of it. I also think it’s something we all should do.

Matter of fact, if there’s ever an Eleventh Commandment, and I’m the one to write it, it’ll be this: Keep thy rotten moods to thyself!