“Where’s My Bag?”
Even the best list of things to pack when traveling couldn’t help me remember one crucial item.
I spent hours packing for vacation. I laid out outfits on the bed; I imagined country clubs and fancy dinners and planned for them. I mixed. I matched. I packed three bathing suits and two cover-ups; jeans and T-shirts, long-sleeves and shortsleeves. I filled a bag with shoes. Then I packed my makeup.
My also-ADHD husband showed up late. We raced to get into the car. Seven hours, two interstates, three stops for gas, plus pee breaks, later, we had reached his parents’ house. I chatted up his mom while he brought the bags in. “That’s it!” he proclaimed.
“Where’s my bag?” I asked.
“Huh?” he said.
“My bag. Where is it?”
I’d left it sitting on the bed. I had nothing but the clothes on my back. No pajamas, no shoes. We had remembered my makeup.
My mother-in-law lent us her credit card, because we were poor graduate students. We went to Target and had a mini-shopping spree. It wasn’t much fun because you can’t hyperfocus when spending someone else’s money.
At least I got a cool bulldog T-shirt out of it. The jammies sucked, the bathing suit didn’t fit, but the flip-flops flipped and I got an OK dress to wear to dinner — though it would have looked better if I’d remembered to tear off the Target tags.