That Time My Luggage Had No Socks In It. I Mean Shoes.

A Day In The Life Of A Frequent But Forgetful Traveler.

I travel for a living. And my clients tend to be schools. So from late May through early September, I get a nice juicy break from flying while my roller bag sits in my hall closet for three long months and forgets what it’s supposed to have inside of it.

See how I’m already blaming the bag?

It’s the first week of September. A Wednesday morning. And with it comes the start of my fall travel season. I’m flying down to LA to visit a noted Catholic high school in the Valley, where on Thursday morning I’ll talk to kids about living their best lives, and on Thursday evening I’ll talk to the parents about leaving their kids alone.

Every new speaking season offers an opportunity to level up my travel game. So this morning I’ve decided, How bout I don’t wait until the last minute to pack? My flight’s at 5pm, but today I decide to pack right after my morning shower – eight hours before I have to leave the house, which is a first for me.

As I put various items into my teal blue roller bag, I flash back to cold nights in hotel rooms that are posh, yet offer duvet covers that are way too thin. I’ve learned the hard way that when my feet are cold, I can’t fall asleep. So even though I’m just going to LA, today I add not just my cozy Jamby PJs to the bag but a pair of multicolor wool socks my friend Elke knitted for me. Just in case!

Thinking about my cold feet, I recall that one time maybe five years ago, when I flew to a gig in Manhattan and hadn’t packed any socks, which is not unusual (I tend not to wear them), but the temperature that day in New York was in the teens and the cold air chewed on my ankles. Then, because I’m a sharer, I went and moaned about it on social media, and in return was met with a good deal of critique masked as curiosity. I heard things like How could you forget socks – it’s February! And I see someone isn’t paying attention 🥴. Angling for sympathy, I tried to explain to folks that, as a Californian, I wear flip flops pretty much year round, and even when I DO have to wear shoes, I don't wear socks. I’d hoped to garner compassion; instead, I’d exposed a character flaw. A week later, a pair of cashmere socks in light gray arrived at my house in Palo Alto, courtesy of my editor (a New Yorker).

Then I recall that time in the mid-pandemic when we were all vaccinated and getting out there once again, and it was March and I flew to Denver to give a talk, and only when I exited the plane and was hit with the frigid air in the jet bridge did I realize that I’d not brought a coat with me. Thankfully, a store two gates down was selling outerwear and its mere presence was oh so validating, like, Naw, you’re not the only idiot who flew to Denver without a coat.

My thoughts return to packing my bag here in California on this September morning. I use the app on my phone to check the weather in LA. High seventies - Nice! I begin to unzip my toiletry bag, which lives in the roller bag permanently and gets restocked based on what’s empty at the start of every trip. I think through what I’ll wear at the events in LA: For the students, wide-legged brushed linen pants in autumnal orange and a black boatneck shirt, and for the parents a fancy black pantsuit with a gauzy black button down over it. The clothes are all of a summer weight, so I’ll have plenty of space to bring a different pair of shoes for each outfit, which I’ll pluck from the large shelf that holds our family’s myriad footwear options which stands downstairs in our back hallway. Meanwhile, I’ve dressed myself for the day (and the plane trip) in jeans, a t-shirt, a blazer, and flip flops.

I carry my roller bag downstairs to the foyer. It stands there alone for six hours as I go about my work day.

Next thing I know, it’s 3:30, and the chauffeured car is out front. I stuff my two books into my brown shoulder bag along with my laptop and journal, and I feel around to be sure that the Ziploc bag of chargers is also in there. Check. I open my wallet to be sure my license is actually in there. Check. I borrow four twenties from Dan for driver tips. Check. Dan grabs my roller bag and takes it out to the black car. I kiss him, Sawyer, and my mom goodbye. I climb into the back seat, shut the door, push the button on the window, and wave until my family can’t see me anymore which is our ritual. Then I settle in to chit chat with my driver for the thirty minute drive to Mineta San Jose airport. I ask him how his day is going. He tells me. He asks about mine. I tell him I’m a frequent traveler, but this is my first flight in awhile and I probably forgot something. He laughs. I look out the window then back down at my phone. We start to talk about all kinds of things from our upbringings as Black people in America, to our kids, to how to get ahead in life.

At some point I look down at the floor of the car and spy my brown feet, my silver toe ring, and my cerulean blue pedicure that I got like three weeks ago but still looks fresh. Only then do I realize that I never took any shoes off of the shoe shelf. That I have no other shoes with me on this trip to the City of Hollywood and Angels other than these black flip flops. I mean, they’re nice for flip flops. But, they’re… flip flops. And even in LA I’m pretty sure you don’t give a keynote in flip flops.

It’s 3:49p.m. The chauffeur’s phone shows an ETA at the airport of 4:07. I board at 4:30. I’m flying Southwest, so getting to the gate on time matters (you get whatever seat is available based on the order in which you board). I’ve done the math. We can’t turn around. And all the while the driver has been talking and I’m trying to make intermittent eye contact like I’m paying attention.

My next thought is Dan. If I text him now, and he’s available, can he grab the shoes and meet me at the airport? Do I want to put him through that? Would it work? Is it worth it? Even if I reach Dan right away, and even if he can drop everything and bring me shoes, the commute is only going to get worse while I wait for him outside security watching the TSA line getting longer as the minutes tick by. What are the odds he gets to me before I have to give up and race to the gate? I decide not to ask him.

I picture the bottoms of the pants I’ve brought with me, and my little brown feet in flip flops. Without the black open-toed heels that were supposed to be in the bag, the black pantsuit for tomorrow night is going to drag on the floor. It's going to have to be autumnal orange wide-legged pants that come down to just above my ankles, and the black shirt, and cerulean blue toes all day.

I picture the keynote with the parents. I’ll open with a joke about that time I flew to Denver in early Spring without a coat. Then maybe I’ll say In case you didn’t notice, I kindof did the same thing today. Except it’s September and it’s LA so I decided maybe I’ll be okay. Maybe I’ll turn it into a joke about LA or a joke about me or a joke about it being my bag’s job to remember what needs to be in it, but my hope is that we’ll start the night embracing the fact that humans are fallible despite the best of intentions. Which is pretty much the theme that undergirds my parenting advice anyway.

This plane would take me to LA. I would be driven to my hotel. I would unpack. I would fall asleep. I would wake up for my big day of talks. I would discover that my toiletry bag was devoid of a stick of deodorant. I would race down to the front desk to ask the hotel staff if they had any. I would learn that they usually have some, but are out. I would be told that a convenience store is down the street and a couple blocks over. I would walk a half mile briskly in my flip flops to buy some deodorant, and be back at my hotel in time to be picked up for my first talk.

Life would go on. The talks would go well. And while I’m pretty sure I’ll forget something on my next trip, I’m pretty sure it won’t be shoes or deodorant.

xo

🤗 Here’s a hug for anyone who is starting to forget things you would never have forgotten when you were younger.

🧐 I love humans in all our imperfections. I’m constantly messing something up. Maybe the same is true for you? It’s all part of the learn-and-grown game which is the very meaning of LIVING, y’all. And besides, as I say in my most recent book Your Turn: How to Be an Adult, failing, flailing, floundering, falling, fumbling, forgetting, and yes fucking up are my favorite F Words because they are actually our greatest teachers.

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