I was planning to write about Christy Whitman’s comment that if legislation irritates both extremes, it’s probably a good bill. That will have to wait because my computer disappeared at the airport. I got to the gate with plenty of time to write, took the computer out of my backpack, put it down, and got briefly distracted. Ready to work, I went to get my computer . . . It wasn’t in the pack. I looked all around. No computer. I remembered putting it in the tray at security, but after that. . . ? My entire professional life is on that computer, so I raced back to security. They looked high and low. No computer. Now they’re concerned because somewhere in the airport is a black box that someone might mistake for a bomb. I’m concerned because whoever stole it now has access to my bank account. I report it to the police, who look at me skeptically. “How old are you?” one asks. “Sixty-six,” I reply, suddenly not quite sure. Then it dawned on me: they think I’m senile. “What’s your phone number?” I pause – just briefly – is the prefix 563 or 963? They smile. I fill out a report and return to the gate, where boarding is almost complete, but I give it one more shot . . . and under the seat, upside down, blending in with the carpet, is my Mac. I’m relieved, of course, but I worry about these things.