I’m not sure what jolts me awake, but before I open my eyes, I know something isn’t right. I reach for my phone, which is typically wedged under a pillow or in the deep, unreachable canyon between my bed and the radiator box, but can’t find it. Shit, I think. Peering around the room, my eyes finally adjusting to the dim light, I realize I’m wearing the jeans and flannel shirt I walked the dog in the night before. This is all wrong, I think. And the feeling of dread and confusing state I find myself in begin to bring reality into focus. As I hear the delta notification buzz my phone, it’s location still unknown, it hits me. Plane, flight, work, meetings, LaGuardia, it’s work trip time baby!
It’s my sixth straight week on the road and given I still don’t know what day it is, I’m unsure where I’m headed. I just know I better get my hands on a device that can tell me what the hell time it is. I don’t know how I fell asleep in all my clothes, but I do know the routine I cling to – my lifeline when I’m in the trenches of work travel – is fucked. My apple watch is dead. My phones aren’t charged. Tears start to well in my eyes and I remember… ALEXA! WHAT. TIME. IS. IT. 4:34 am, she croons back. I’m screwed.
Details of the day’s looming trip trickle back into my memory, from where I don’t know, but I remember my flight is at 6 am out of LaGuardia. I race to the kitchen, for what, I’m not sure, and hear the shower going. WTF? Oh, that’s right. My collection of navy suits and shift dresses needed steaming. The shower has been on since whenever I entered into the lifeless slumber the previous evening. I push the bathroom door open and a cloud of steam engulfs me. I was already beginning to perspire given my stress-induced wake up call, and now engulfed in six hours worth of scalding shower-moisture I’m in a full, Barry’s boot camp sweat.
I have not packed. My work bag isn’t pristinely prepped per my usual pre-trip routine. And, I repeat, nothing is charged. Though my work clothes are wrinkle free, they’re also slightly damp. I run back into the kitchen with an armful of unwearable garb and fling it on the kitchen table. I hear a thud from my room and know Hudson has finally gotten out of bed to see why he has been so rudely ripped from his slumber. Back in the hallway, I see the tips of his ears and then his face as he gingerly surveys the situation from the bedroom doorway. His expression is one of tired amusement, and I can only imagine what he’d say if he could articulate his thoughts on witnessing the Home Alone-like scene that’s unfolding.
I turn lights on and then off. Carry things from one room to another and then back again. Bags are scattered about, and I have no idea what I’m packing. A subpar packer to begin with, I don’t have high hopes for what this morning’s grab-and-go shitshow will yield for my meetings in Dallas and Austin. Underwear? Socks? I grab 10 of each while likely simultaneously forgetting critical items for my trip.
When I first began traveling for work, I was never prepared. Upon touching down in whatever middle earth location I happened to be visiting, I’d head to Target. There I would purchase whatever article of clothing or toiletry item or piece of work accoutrement I had forgotten. After several months of Target work trip triage, I began the hone my travel routine.
Shit, it’s 4:45. I’ve done nothing but run around the apartment sweating and cursing, turning lights on and off as I go. It’s like the movie Beetlejuice, steamy and terrifying. FOCUS, I think. Ok. Hudson, Anna will take him out when she gets up. Bag, somewhat packed – don’t forget dry work clothes. The damp ones can come too, but I don’t trust them. Work bag, add computer, add blue pilot fine tip pens, blue highlighter, notebook, CHARGERS, SHIT – I turn and whip my apple watch off and throw it on the charger.
My travel uniform is always the same. Jeans, booties, my brown leather jacket, black long sleeve t-shirt and a scarf. In the summer I might switch the long sleeve for a tank, but it’s rare. It’s June, I realize, and I’m going to Austin. Too late to stray from old faithful now though, and with that thought I change out of my slumbering jeans and into my travel denim. After lugging my suitcase to the door, I go back for my work bag. I sling it over my shoulder and reach for my make-up. CRASH. The sound of my MacBook Pro striking the iron base of my bed on its way to the floor makes me jump. Pens fly under the bed. Both phones are AWOL. A knot begins to form in my throat and I almost give up.
Evidently Hudson has chewed the strap on my beloved InCase. Get your shit together Carol, I think. Looks like we’ll be using my absurdly heavy and completely impractical black tote for meetings this week. No compartments for my pens. No dividers for my electronics. It’s gonna be the wild west on the road today, I think, and the coincidence that I’m heading to Texas causes a shrill sound that’s half laugh, half yelp to leave my mouth.
Once dressed, I double check that I have the essentials. Computer (although I’m unsure if it works after it’s ping pong-like trip to the hardwood floor). iPad and wallet. Sunglasses. Whatever, it’s 5:04 and I should be eating my usual breakfast of hard-boiled eggs on toast, a coca cola, and a red bull in the Delta lounge right now. I call an Uber and begin the five-floor descent to the street. A steady rain is falling, and I can see the humidity through the front window of my building. My hair didn’t get any attention this morning and rising around the messy bun on top of my head I can feel an atmosphere of frizz. Perfect.
My driver helps me with my bags, and we begin the journey across town to FDR highway over the East River which will lead us through Queens to the hellscape that is LGA. I do my best to relay my need for expediency nicely on this blessed morning, remembering my Uber rating is startlingly low. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I’m a hot mess, almost in tears, or both, but he clearly gets it. As our SUV whips dangerously in and out of traffic, I try to catch my breath. It’s fine. I’m fine. We’ll make it.
Headphones. Where are my headphones. Not here! It’s fine, I repeat. I will buy new headphones. Make up. I’ll put on some make up, I think, and rake through the bowels of my tote for said the bag. The laugh/screech sound comes out of my mouth again. You have got to be kidding me, I think. I sit back, look out the window, and wish I was anywhere but approaching LaGuardia airport. 5:28. This should be colorful, I say, to my hideous reflection in my phone.
Zipping all of the items back into my tote, I reach for my sleeve to check my watch. The white watch tan permanently tattooed on my wrist stares back at me. I just learned where the word SNAFU comes from, and my current situation epitomizes it beautifully. Out in the rain again with my bags, the airport lights shine like the strip in Vegas. My phone buzzes, it’s Delta. My eyes catch the words FLIGHT DELAY from the text before I enter the fluorescent terminal and I start to laugh. Looking around at the expressionless travelers milling about, it seems no one else finds the scene as funny as I. But hey, I think to myself, that’s showbiz baby, and soldier on to security.
The Dog Hair Diaries 