So it follows that

if I stay out until 3 a.m. because my birthday-celebrating friend prides himself on closing down bars that stay open after last call and I thought it would be nice to indulge the occasion,

it follows that

at the pub, after a couple pints of Guinness, when I threw my coat over the seat of a bar stool,

it would follow

that my cellphone would fall out of my coat pocket and I wouldn't notice because of course,

it follows

that the combination of Guinness and post-2 a.m. jukebox dancing and lots of new friends would mean I was hardly paying attention to the contents of my coat pocket,

so it follows that

I didn't notice it was missing until the following morning, which was when I broke into laughs of exceeding gratefulness that my friend's favorite bar is an Irish pub, because who else but an Irish pub morning bartender named Raymond would scroll through a lost cell's phonebook for the most logical contact to find the phone's owner, which of course is

"Mom and Dad Home"

(as in home in Buffalo, Minnesota, doing laundry, and a bit confused perhaps to be hearing from Raymond from JJ Foleys in Boston at 10:30 a.m., but enjoying Raymond's thick brogue and the relief in knowing that Boston is full of such gentlemen assisting a daughter who tends to flakiness)

and of course it follows that Dad would immediately call me at work to tell me, so that I could immediately call Raymond and hear how tickled he was that he had phoned someone in Minnesota ("was that really where they were?") and what nice parents it sounds like I have and that I should stop by anytime to get my phone, which of course

was followed by a wave of my own relief that indeed, Boston has some gentlemen who occasionally save me from myself.

Not that I don't want to regularly save myself. But it is nice to have back-up.