Misadventures in Manhattan

It's not a trip with me unless there's some drama.  I'm an expert traveler--I navigate security with the best of them, I can shove thirty pound bags into the overhead with ease and stuff more liquids than you would think humanly possible into that quart sized Ziploc. 

No, the drama is usually of my own making.  And mostly induced by my complete inability to plan.  

After my Christmas travel fiasco (which involved me taking two bags because I was too tired and rushed to edit my wardrobe and accidentally putting my liquids in the non-checked bag--oh, and did I mention that I never check bags, but again, I was too frenetic to deal with packing), I was determined to plan better for my New York City expedition.

It started off well.  I packed in plenty of time.  I even got in a run.  I arrived just in time to board and managed to get tons of work done on the plane.

And then I landed at La Guardia.

And my phone battery was fading quickly.  And I couldn't locate my charger.

Frantic, I plopped down in an abandoned concourse and starting tossing belongings onto the floor.  Jeans, scarves, and yes, even my skivvies were on full display as I searched in vain for the charger.  Meanwhile, my phone was making loud, gasping noises, and I had no idea what hotel room I was staying in or where I would be meeting my friends for dinner.

Brookstone to the rescue.  I finally broke down and bought an overpriced charger, knowing full well I'd find mine in the bag as soon as I got to the hotel (wrong: charger was actually on my kitchen table, along with my Cliff bars, so if I faint during Martha, you'll know why)!  I sat down, drank some water and let my phone charge enough to get me into the ride into the city.

But the fun wasn't over.  As I boarded the bus for the city, a button popped off my winter coat (the second to fall off that day), which basically means I couldn't close it and protect myself from the freezing cold.  And there were random threads hanging out everywhere.  Uber classy.

All was well until I got off the subway at Times Square and realized I'd developed a huge blister on my left ankle.  And my stuffed overnight bag was starting to feel really heavy. I limped the two blocks to the hotel, where the lovely desk clerk gives me a bandaid.  Another crisis averted.

Until later that night, when in the middle of dinner in Soho with good friends, my contact tore in my eye, and when I went to the bathroom to try and pull it out, I realized that I only have one earring in, because I've apparently also managed to drop that along the way (and my sister gave me those as a bridesmaid's gift, so they're quite sentimental).  The contact was still lodged in my eye, so I returned to the table, mascara smeared, eyes red and blurry, rocking the 80's earring look and just had to laugh.  It was just so me.  To the outside world, I look like I have it together, but in reality, I'm walking around Manhattan with a buttonless coat, crazed, bloodshot eyes and a big zit in the middle of my chin, hoping I blend in with the masses.