I was ready to go.
My clothes, including three dresses, enough casual clothes for 5 days, toiletries, and all the other accouterments we ladies need in order to travel with comfort and confidence, including my big ol' camera, were all packed in a small rolling carry-on.
(that is, however, all except for my shoes. In the 11th hour I found out that T had plenty of room in his suitcase. Consequentially, instead of the functional but pretty-darned-ugly pair of shoes that I'd brought that were comfortable and sensible and matched all of my dresses, I got to cram about 8 pairs into his luggage. Yessss!)
I finished up with dinner as T showered, completed packing and brought his bags downstairs. I was, meanwhile, smugly surfing the internet, mentally patting myself on the back for my scheduling ingenuity.
We loaded up and M drove us to the airport. During the 15 minute drive we discussed the trip and the weekend and the weather, and how M's dropping me off at LAX has such a familiar feel (from the years during which I visited her at school out here while myself living in the East).
Having pulled up at the Continental terminal, T popped out of the back seat and began to unload the trunk. I was unbuckling and gathering stuff and checking my purse, and as he looked at me somewhat impatiently and I stretched one foot out of the car, I looked down.
I was wearing flip flops.
This may not seem like a big deal to you, but for me, it was gargantuan.
One of the main themes of the trip rested on me having my sneakers! I'd planned to exercise each day, which is a must when we're out here - for example, at dinner last night I ate more than I ordinarily do in an entire day at home. Exercising while visiting Hazelton is not so much for my waistline as it is for my happiness. The highs and lows given by the caffeine, sugar, and who-knows-what-else have the ability to turn my normal internal state upside down.
Besides, and perhaps more importantly, I have the homeostatic temperature regulation of a lizard. In other words, I'm cold-blooded. I almost freeze my toes off every time I fly, and I foresaw hours of icy discomfort before me on the red-eye trip.
I needed those shoes!
And I'd left them! While I was feeling so proud of being ready on time.
As I expressed my disappointment (some whining MAY have been involved), M reached into her back seat and magically produced some cute black and pink Nikes.
She explained that these were her jumping shoes, so the socks in them (magic again!) wouldn't be so pretty.
As I pulled them out, I saw what she meant.
Those socks were dirty.
And I don't mean a-smudge-on-the-heels-and-toes-from-walking-around dirty. I mean, streaked-with-clay-colored-dirt-and-dust, yellowing-and-stained-on-even-the-unstreaked-parts dirty.
Understand, M skydives on the weekends. That's why sneakers were in her car (you wear those while jumping, and since Perris Valley Drop Zone is her home away from home, she always keeps a skydive-friendly change of clothes in her car). Also, Perris Valley is a desert, and so it's sandy. Combine that with the force of landing hard from the sky, in said sand, hundreds and hundreds of times, and you get dirty socks.
The actual socks were probably perfectly clean, but would never appear so. Never, ever again.
What did that mean?
Why, that I was horiffically embarassed at the security check, that's what.
What did that mean?
Oh, that I probably drew all the more attention to my ghetto socks because of my embarassment.
Whatevvva. I only kinda cared - T was with me and he doesn't care if my socks are dirty :)
Afterward, we went to the gate, saw that our flight had been delayed for two hours, and had some time to kill. T wrote a song on the spot called People Watchin' at the Airport, but that's for another post.
(no whiteboard quotes now, I'm on vacation!)