The story I’m about to relate is, for better or for worse, absolutely true. I have no explanation for it. A few theories, maybe, but no facts to back them up.

Our tale starts last Friday, March 26, 2010. I was sitting in my office around 10:00 ayem or so talking football with a couple of co-workers, when I casually noticed that my eyeglass lenses seemed to be smudged. In the midst of discussing the benefits/downside of Jake Delhomme joining my beloved Browns, I reached for a napkin from the stack on my desk and began to absently polish…

Nothing.

I threw a confused glance at my friends, interrupting the conversation. As they looked at me, I revealed the cause of my confusion by pulling the napkin completely through the left side of my frames: my lens was gone.

We figured it must have popped out while I was inattentively polishing it. The three of us hands-and-kneed it around, beside and behind my desk. I moved a software box lying on the floor and found the withered remains of a dead mouse (so that’s where that smell was coming from a few months back!), but no lens. We searched file folders it may have bounced into, moved nearby copiers and throw rugs, but no success.

We examined my frames: no breaks, no bends, everything screwed down tight. How the hell could a lens pop out, anyway?

I retraced my steps since I’d arrived that morning, but no luck, and no lens.

(Sharp-eyed [har!] readers may wonder how I could not notice I was missing an eyeglass lens earlier, but my long-time reader will remember that I’m afflicted with macular degeneration in my left eye, and can barely see straight out of it on a good day.)

We searched far and wide, up and down, hither and yon, everyplace we possibly could. No lens.

I had a desperate thought. The previous evening I had taken two hours of MMA training. On the nights I do this, I stick my socks into my shoes in the locker room, then slide my glasses in so I know where they’re at. Was it possible that someone had stepped on my shoe, somehow dislodging the lens?

I called Tiger Schulmann, where I trained, but Megan told me that nobody had handed in an orphan eyeglass lens.

When I got home, I examined every square inch of my humble abode. It’s not a huge place, just a tiny two-bedroom condo that takes me all of 20 minutes to vacuum. But that’s because I don’t vacuum the kitchen floor; I mop it two or three times a month. Or once every two or three months. I forget.

Anyway, the lens seemed to be nowhere to be found. I searched my car. Nothing. Checked the shoes I’d worn to training the night before. Nope. Looked in the parking lot. No lens. Looked everywhere I could think of. Nada.

I began to resign myself to the inevitable: the lens would not allow itself to be found, and I would have to fork over a few hundred dollars to Lenscrafters for a pair of replacement lenses. Because those guys won’t replace just one lens; they travel in pairs.

Yesterday, Tuesday, March 30, began like any other. OK, maybe not like any other. It was pouring down rain and pretty miserable all the way around. After I did my ADRs in the morning, I dressed, choosing to wear a pair of shoes that hadn’t graced my tootsies for 10 days or so (yeah, I have a dozen pairs. So what? I’m in touch with my feminine side).

I get to work, do this, do that, blah blah blah. About 2 pee em I got up and walked back to the kitchen area of our office. About halfway there, I felt like there was something in my shoe, like a small stone or a dead mouse.

By the time I got back to my desk, it was very uncomfortable, so I took off my shoe, only to find…

Yes, my missing lens.

Don’t ask, I don’t know. Obviously it became dislodged at karate. Maybe someone stepped on my shoe, I don’t know. Whatever. It was in a shoe that I hadn’t worn in a couple of weeks, and I had the shoe on my foot for eight hours or so before I noticed.

Strange, yes. But true.