play the hand you're dealt

I love to fly, but I hate being on the plane. I was fine until I rode on a prop plane to Key West from the Gulf Coast. It had twelve seats on it. Twelve. I was hung over, which is normal because my vacations generally start the moment I leave work. (Sometimes weekends are like that as well.) It was the most miserable flight of my life. All I could do was look through the window at the water below and realize I had absolutely no control over my surroundings. Powerlessness is not an emotion I wear well.

Now I self-medicate before stepping foot on a plane, arriving at the airport with ample time to get a few wines in my system before take-off. I might have been known to chase them with a Lortab or two. Everyone appreciates the induced coma, most especially me.

So, when I arrived home from The Mile High City I was a tad foggy. I am a notorious over packer, and had also done too much shopping. My suitcases were stuffed, and I was not looking forward to carrying the bags myself. (One reason it’s nice to travel with a man.) There were three. One for each day I was there, essentially. The first two bags come out promptly – one to go. The carousel took forever to come around, and as I waited at the opposite end, I heard the snickers follow its movement. The last of the luggage turns the corner and comes into sight. And there they were, SLOWLY, AGONIZINGLY, making their way past me. Pink panties. Pink thong panties. MY pink thong panties. Then another pair of blue thong panties. Then a shoe. The left shoe of my favorite pair of brown, wedge 4” heel sandals. The pair that I wear with almost every casual mini, match up great with jeans, and make my legs look fucking awesome.

Did I wear those panties? How many people are still watching? I sink to my heels, feign disinterest, and chuckle under my breath, hopefully conveying to those standing near me my sympathy for the poor girl who lost her panties. Do I know anyone here? Are there any cute men around? Are they period panties? How can I inconspicuously retrieve my shoe? Panties are quite replaceable. Those shoes were not. Following my personal effects comes my duffel bag, the side zipper gaping open. I cannot retrieve it either, without drawing attention to myself. I can wait for it to go to the lost luggage place and claim it there. This would reduce my humiliation to one or two airport employees who will never lay eyes on me again. I could pay to have it mailed to me. But then someone else will have to remove my possibly worn panties from the conveyor belt. Not acceptable. More importantly, there was a chance the shoe wouldn’t make it back into the bag without my attention. Wait a minute. I will never see these people again. Buck up, little bronco. I wait for the bag, and its innards, to reach the very end of the belt, rise, and march over, swiping up panties in my left hand without breaking stride, pulling the other two bags awkwardly behind me on my right. After stuffing the shoe and undergarments into the open pocket, I raise my head high and stalk out, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. I was actually quite proud of myself when I reached the car because I had forced myself to wear a slight smile, laughing at the foolishness of everyone else. Everyone has panties, what’s so humorous about these?

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized the second shoe wasn’t in the bag either.