Several years ago my dad and husband built a new shed.  It replaced a crumbling, rotting cubicle that might have formally been considered a shed, but it’s useful days had ended.  The replacement shed is lovely, with a cedar shingled roof, sliding door, and almost twice the size of its predecessor.  The inside is a bit of a spatial puzzle and lots of time is spent cursing as I end up removing several item so that I can reach what I went into the shed for.  It is that or I whack my head into something.  After several years of the shed being as it is, my husband installed a lock on the door last year.  My brain has yet to accept this adjustment.  I have walked out to the shed innumerable times in various kinds of weather to get whatever it is I am needing to be faced with a locked door, having forgotten to get the keys.  I have done this so many times that the keys are now the damn keys.  I have formally cursed them and they have been labeled as such.