I was home by myself the other night, watching Iron Man at hair-melting volume and contemplating its plot holes, when the phone rang. It was Colette; she was on her way home from dinner with friends.

“You should go outside and look at the moon,” she said. “It’s a full moon tonight, and it’s huge. It’s really cool.”

I’m not really one to gaze at the moon, and Robert Downey Jr. was just about to blast his way out of a cave with extreme prejudice, but I figured if Colette was bothering to call just to tell me how cool the moon looked, maybe I should go check it out. I went out front, but thanks to all the tall, old trees on our street, I couldn’t see the moon. I decided to go back through the house and try looking from the deck.

No luck there, either. Again, too many trees. I did find a really big spider web, which would have been cool if I hadn’t found it by walking through it and wearing it, spider and all, for a few spastic moments. I’m glad nobody else was there to see me frantically trying to get the webs off, looking like a dog trying to attack a squirrel taped to its back.

A little irritated, I decided to go back to Iron Man and continue considering the unlikelihood that a weapons-development company’s CEO would also be its most brilliant engineer. I reached for the door…and had an “oh no” moment. The door was locked.

I stared in confusion. We never engage the lock on the handle to the back door; we use the deadbolt only. We do this so that we don’t accidentally lock ourselves out. It therefore did not make sense that the handle wouldn’t turn. Measures had been taken, darn it.

I continued staring at the door as if I were waiting for it to figure out that it couldn’t possibly be locked. Then I grabbed the handle and yanked it about 46 times, because really, that’s the best way to convince a locked door that it shouldn’t be locked.

The reality of my situation started to settle in. I was hosed. The front door would be no help; I’d remembered to lock it when I came back in from the front yard. I walked around the house in my socks and tried it anyway. Sure enough, locked. It figures that the one time I remember to do something, it comes back and bites me in the flanks.

I contemplated my options and realized I had none. The garage door was down and both doors were locked. We didn’t have a spare key stashed anywhere. I was locked out. Period.

I had caught one lucky break – I happened to have my cell phone in my pocket. I called Colette and told her what had happened. She said she was still at least 20 minutes away. I was going to have to wait.

I hung up the phone and stood there for a moment. I had 20 minutes to kill. Twenty. Whole. Minutes. What the hell was I going to do with myself for 20 minutes? I didn’t have my Blackberry, or my laptop, or my iPod, or a book. All I had was my cruddy personal cell phone, which is good for making calls and nothing else.

I was grumpy. I was stuck outside with nothing to do for 20 minutes. You have to understand something about me. I get bored more easily than a puppy with a full pot of coffee in it. When I call someone, I like to be in front of my computer so I can have something to do if they don’t pick up by the second ring. The thought of watching live TV without having a book or iPod handy to keep me occupied during the commercials makes me want to peel my skin off with a dull spoon.

I realize this is almost certainly not a good thing. But, hey, it is what it is. I’m a product of a society built on a foundation of 24-hour news, handheld supercomputers, and thousand-channel cable services. Anything less than constant mental stimulation is for chumps. It’s not my fault I’m like this. Right? Right.

The 20 minutes I was going to spend sitting on the porch stretched before me like a North Korean prison sentence. I sat on the steps and, well, just sat there. And sat there. And sat there.

At least it was a nice night. I’d been cooped up indoors all day, and the warm evening breeze was pleasant. So I had that going for me. The breeze was just strong enough to make the leaves in those big, old trees on my street rustle softly over my head. I closed my eyes for a minute and just listened to that sound. When I did, I also started to notice the chorus of insects echoing from every direction. It struck me that while there was only one of me sitting outside, there were probably thousands of insects making the noises that I was hearing. It made my quiet little street, with its semi-dark houses and parked cars, seem far more alive and vibrant than I’d ever realized. Suddenly I felt like an interloper as I sat there on my own front porch.

And so, as I sat there on the steps, feeling the night breeze, breathing in warm air, hearing the sounds of life teeming in the trees all around me, I realized something. Something that, when I look back on it now, was really quite profound.

I realized that I was bored out of my freaking mind. Oh. My. God. How do people stand being outside for more than three minutes at a time? Wow.

Which reminds me. I really need to hide a key outside somewhere. If I get locked out like that again, I think I might lose my mind. Sheesh.

Bob Rybarczyk (brybarczyk@sbcglobal.net) writes stuff. He occasionally smells of rich Corinthian leather. Look for his first novel, “Acoustic Kitty,” at area Borders stores and at Amazon.