It happens to someone else until it happens to you and then it takes on your life.  Due to flight circumstances my bag beat me to Milwaukee while I was still in Florida.  (Couldn’t I have traveled in the bag section?!)

An extra night added to my vacation would be the envy of anyone after making three phone calls to alert those tending to my duties back home.  “This will be fun,” I think to myself since the choice was not mine.  I now need to find a “room at the inn” stuck in my Milwaukee clothes in sunny, balmy Florida.  More that I paid before, I found a room that a New York couple would have loved including a living room (which is not necessary for my 20 hours and being single.)

“This will be fun,” as I remember my swim trunks are en route to cold Milwaukee and I’m on a lounger in Milwaukee’s warmests.  (I think I may start a new fashion of wearing pants at the pool.  “Next season they’ll all be doing it.”)  “I need to take my pill” after my shower which is not happening and I’m thinking that dying in Florida sounds better at my funeral than dying in Milwaukee’s February cold.  “I’ll grab my comb…oh, that’s right” as I remind myself of all the stuff that I stuffed in the suitcase.  The resort gave me a toothbrush with the paste already in between the bristles which I thought was ingenuous and invented by a bagless person whose experience was like mine.

After my shower, I wondered what I was to wear that night for supper until my wondering dwindled into the same Milwaukee stuff that I should be now wearing in there.  I smile and wonder how long it takes to smell to infected clothing.  “I’ll recharge my phone and be off,” until another smile appears realizing my phone charger and me are separated.  (Is there a worst scenario?)  The front desk comes to my rescue with my plug-in need.

The next morning arrives with me looking for my bag which I remember is where I am not but hope to return to soon.  (That’s an awkward sentence for anyone who hasn’t travel.)  It is just me in my sweaty Milwaukee clothes waiting to arrive in that cold climate prepared with the only clothes I have.

Checking out I thank the good folks for giving me one of their last rooms and remember Lent’s desert experience for Jesus, 40 days of it.  Granted Florida and loaded with credit cards does not make me a martyr but a slight taste of Lent in this contemporary day may be the best I can hope for.

Bag and me were reunited the next day.  I guess, at a stretch, that could be considered Easter?