I’ll do almost anything to avoid checking a bag when I travel. It’s easier and, more importantly, an escort’s suitcase isn’t exactly something you want casually inspected at baggage claim.
A client had flown me out for a little getaway. After warm goodbyes, I packed quickly to make my flight. As usual, everything fit into my weekender duffle. The bottom compartment, the one technically meant for shoes, became home to my more intimate inventory. Zipped it shut. Rushed out the door.
Rushing is never a good idea for me. But everything was fine. Completely fine. Right?
When my boarding group was called, I slung the bag over my shoulder and joined the line, half-watching my pets on the camera back home, still riding the high of the weekend while mentally preparing for reality.
That’s when I heard a pop.
Then I felt something slap my leg.
The bottom compartment had blown open, hanging on by a single stubborn tooth of the zipper. I looked down just in time to watch a bottle of massage oil roll a good ten feet away. My bra landed perfectly on someone’s boot. A sparkly toy bounced off in the opposite direction.
It all happened in seconds.
I just stood there. Quietly betrayed by a zipper.
People stared. Someone gasped.
One person moved to help.
He turned around and dropped to his knees without a word, already reaching for what had scattered. He even crawled a little to retrieve the items that had rolled furthest. A complete stranger, on his knees, calmly collecting my most personal belongings like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And all I could think was: I do like a man on his knees.
Not the time. Not the place.
He stood, handed me a fistful of pink lace with a perfectly straight face, and said, “Let me guess your favorite color.”
He chuckled. I laughed. What had been mortifying a moment ago shifted into something almost absurd.
I stepped out of line to toss the broken compartment in the bin, then ducked into the nearest shop. The only bag available was clear plastic. Of course. I transferred everything, accepted my fate, and got back in line. Boarding pass in one hand. Very transparent bag in the other.
It’s safe to say I won’t forget that day.
Moral of the story: if you’re not occasionally mortified, you’re probably not living all that interestingly. Don’t take yourself too seriously. You’ll survive.
That carry-on has since been retired.
And whoever you are, Gate 14B… thank you.
