***Hey, Everybody! Just wanted to let you know that I'm playing hooky on Thursday, February 26, 2015, but I'll be back with a brand spanking new post on Monday, March 2, 2015.
In the meantime, check out what we're up to on Facebook. Okay. That's all.
Thank you for reading. Carry on reading the post below... <3***
Back in 2005 before I was married, before I became a mother, and before I had the responsibilities I have now, I lived a very different life.
I look back now and realize that -- when I wasn't working -- I had a sh*!-load of free time. I had free time coming out the wazoo.
I had so much free time, in fact, that I signed up for a week-long, extremely intensive yoga seminar, which I attended for nearly four hours each night for five days straight, and for nearly 12 hours on the weekend.
Following the course verbatim resulted in a ginormous change in my eating habits.
I stopped eating snack food.
I stopped eating sugar.
I became a vegetarian.
And, no lie, I lost nearly 10 pounds by the time the seminar was over.
You may be wondering what in the hell this has to do with hotel housekeeping throwing away my clothes.
It's got plenty.
Because in the months that followed the seminar, I found the best jeans I ever owned (a cheapo pair by Union Bay); Scott then gifted me with a shopping spree in New York where I was then able to find my most favorite blouse (It was beige; ruffled; silk; perfect); and the third member that rounded out this fashion trifecta was a pair of pea green suede stilettos.
Of course I packed this ensemble when I headed to Florida to work the Miami International Auto Show.
My initial plan was to wear this outfit one night when I had dinner and drinks on Lincoln Avenue with the girls.
But then an even better scenario presented itself.
Scott surprised me by showing up at my hotel door. (He was a varsity high school football coach in New Jersey at the time and had flown down to Miami immediately following his Friday night game.)
"I'm taking you to your favorite pizza spot after the show tonight," he says as I'm getting ready for work the next morning.
So I placed The Outfit inside a plastic grocery bag because I didn't have any space left inside my Kate Spade tote bag.
I had intended to take the bag with me and change into The Outfit at the convention center so as to be ready to roll when Scott picked me up.
But in my haste to catch a cab to work, I left the bag by the door.
And this is precisely where sh!t begins to head south.
Fast forward ten hours and I'm getting off work.
I can't find the plastic bag.
I retrace my steps in my head and realize that I never brought it with me. I call Scott and tell him bring it.
"What bag" he says.
"The bag with The Outfit. It's by the door, somewhere..."
I wait for Scott to respond. I'm anticipating that -- any minute -- he'll say, Oh, here it is.
And when he doesn't, panic sets in.
"I'm telling you, Courtney, there's no bag," he says with a hint of agitation. "I just got back and the room is all clean...I guess housekeeping..."
And that's when the lump in my throat grows to the size of a watermelon.
You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to connect the proverbial dots.
I kid you not, I stopped dead in my tracks, dropped my cell phone, and screamed. Right there next to the huge neon yellow Dodge Ram pick-up truck.
At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, I can't remember what happened next. Even writing this post is triggering post traumatic stress disorder.
One of the girls from Land Rover caught a cab back to the hotel with me because everyone around me knew I should not be going anywhere unattended from the way I was handling things.
But I had regained some modicum of composure by the time I had returned to the hotel.
I marched straight to the front desk and calmly requested to speak to the manager of the manager's manager.
In other words, I wasn't leaving that desk until I spoke to The Top Dog.
The hotel took my diatribe very seriously and became Johnny On The Spot, which is why I am refraining from mentioning the name of this hotel in an effort not to throw them under the bus.
Over the next 24 hours, a frantic search ensued for The Plastic Bag which contained The Outfit.
To no avail.
The hotel cut me a check for $170 to cover the cost of my clothing, and I tried to replace the items.
But I was never successful in finding those jeans, that blouse, and those heels ever again.
And The Plastic Bag was never found.
I bet you dollars to donuts it ended up in a Jacksonville landfill.
That Outfit was truly the one that got away.
Never mind that the only thing I'd probably be able to fit into now are the shoes -- the blouse and the jeans were a size 1.
Because, again, I had lost 10 pounds...and I was already slim to begin with.
Come to think of it, I was teetering on Bobble Head Status.
Anyhow, believe it or not, I still have the jean's tag.
I kept it as a momento because, even then, I knew that wearing a size 1 pair of pants was fleeting -- I knew full well that if I had so much as looked at a Cheeto, it would all go up in smoke:
If I tried to squeeze those jeans on now, I'm guessing I couldn't get them past my calf.
Rest in peace, The Outfit.
Nine years later, I bet you're still the best looking ensemble in the landfill.
That is, if you heaven't decomposed yet.
The takeaway -- which is pretty much common sense...common sense that I apparently didn't possess that day -- is this: NEVER put your best outfit inside a plastic grocery bag and leave it by the door of your hotel room.
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