Some friends were talking about eventful vacations last week when one friend, Mags, mentioned what a lovely time we had years ago in New Mexico -- except for when I'd been kidnapped. That casual statement led to curious looks from others, which in turn forced me to tell the following story.
Our friend, Biscuit, invited a group of us to accompany her to a cooking class in Albuquerque in celebration of her birthday. I typically unwrap a Hostess Twinkie in celebration of my birthday. Driving 25 hours round-trip to cook for two days in someone else's kitchen when I don't like cooking in my own seemed like a bad idea, so naturally I said yes.
Traveling when one has reached a certain age is different than traveling in one's youth. Not that I necessarily know about traveling in one's youth, given that I barely made it out of the tri-county area as a kid. But I know I wasn't concerned about a particular travel issue until well into my 40s -- an issue involving, how shall I say it delicately? -- the inability to go when you're on the go, you know?
Turns out, I wasn't the only one anticipating nature not calling. Several of us brought our own remedies to keep things moving. One brought prunes. Another brought Smooth Move herbal tea. I opted for eating fiber-rich foods and drinking lots of water, but after a couple of days, I called in reinforcements. I ate a couple of prunes. Nothing happened. If two is good, five must be better, I figured. Still, nothing happened. That evening, I drank a cup of Mags' herbal tea. Nada.
The next morning, I loaded up on oatmeal and berries before heading outside to move the car, as we had apparently parked in a location not meant for hotel guests. I grabbed the keys, leaving my phone and everything else since I was only going to be gone a minute. Easy breezy, back in a flash, I told them as I jogged down the hallway toward the stairwell.
Midway down three flights, my gut bellowed a blue whale battle cry. I seized the handrail and strategized. I was too far to make it back to the room. The closest point for defensive maneuvers would be the lobby restroom.
When I didn't immediately return, my friends began to worry. Since they couldn't reach me by phone and saw the car still parked in its same location, they became convinced I'd been kidnapped, as all good friends who have watched too many episodes of "America's Most Wanted" are apt to do.
And in a manner of speaking, I was. I'd been hijacked in a porcelain fortress by three days' worth of oatmeal and prunes. Once released, I was a new woman. I moved the car, having to drive several blocks to find a spot, and walked back to the room in good spirits, unaware of the chaos awaiting me.
And the kidnapping story became legend, though I hadn't really been kidnapped. I was just taking care of the bottom line.
Don't you love cheeky endings?