Inertia is a condition that rarely overtakes me except outside of my usual orbit.
On vacation, even if I plan to sightsee, inertia conquers me the moment I step into a nice hotel room. It doesn´t have to be luxurious and perfect. It doesn’t have to be a Radisson a Westin or even a humble Hilton.
No, any hotel room with a comfy bed, 24 hour room service and a decent view will bring on inertia.
I remember when I was in Hong Kong. All the conditions for inertia obtained, including and most especially a fabulous view of Hong Kong Harbor, which never failed to amuse. For hours, I watched tiny junks navigate the wakes of giant steamers, ferries ceaselessly plying the waves between the island and the mainland. I did see the sights, but only during the hottest part of the day… I had squandered the cool morning lazing around my room.
Today--March 4—the same satiation. Nice hotel room, great view, exotic locale, this time Cancun. I awakened after a wonderful night of rest to see that the sun slanted over my balcony at the perfect angle for nude sunbathing. Even better, the idea of doing my yoga routine out there beckoned.
So I did. People were surprisingly blasé about the entire event. My room is five stories up, and one of the few benefits of being a woman of a certain age is that one is virtually invisible. Not great for getting sex partners, but fabulous for doing naked yoga in front of the entire Caribbean.
Little would bring me out of my gloriously somnolent state of inertia except… OMG. Where the
F is my hat???
F is my hat???
I had bought the perfect hat for this trip. It had a broad brim and an under-chin string for windy days. (I had not been to this area for 20 years but did remember it was windy). My precious new hat was cloth and therefore washable.
I was certain I had brought it. I remember packing it. I even remember unpacking it. But where the H had I put it?
I tore apart my hotel room. Wasn’t hard—the place wasn´t any more than 15x15.
Periodically, between the moment I realized the hat had disappeared and the second I left my room (I had to leave to get a hat) I repeated the same fruitless search-and-destroy ritual.
Perhaps buying another hat would be no big deal to most. But I don’t like to own too much stuff. I’m convinced I have too much stuff. I must own at least 10 hats. At least, and buying another was, well, not on my agenda.
But in this climate, a hat is essential. My dermatologist expends no little effort keeping me looking marvelous, and she would not be pleased if I fried my skin.
So I was galvanized me into action by a lost hat.