I am in the midst of packing. The room is in chaos. I’m pulling all the options into a pile and deciding what to wear for the two weather forecasts: hot and steamy and rainy and hot and steamy and not rainy.

Above is a piece of the pile. Brown shirt is a definite, striped linen pants on the right are for hot days, and jeans are for the rain. All are way too big for me, but I will be eating recklessly.

The issue is the shoes. I know, those tennis shoes are ideal, aren’t they? Maybe a little smudged on the toes. I almost put them in the bag before I realized they were shoes of the dead from 2012, and I only wore them once. They might have been broken in for someone else’s feet, but not mine own. Back in the closet they went, perfect or not. Even I am no longer dumb enough to wear “new” shoes on vacation.

Instead I’ll be wearing the blue tennis shoes I bought when the navy blue shoes disintegrated at work during the Mass Shoe Extinction Event, or perhaps a pair of white sandals I might bring as backup if I end up at a snooty restaurant for lunch.

I fear I might end up packing 6 pairs of underwear and no bra.

I know we scored a necktie for Gary at the Raphael Hotel last time. I wonder if … no.

Oh, and of course, at the very last minute Gary volunteered to come along and then revoked his offer immediately after I agreed. I remember a time in my life this would have driven me crazy. But then, I remember a time in my life I would have worn those tennis shoes.

The plan was to pay for these trips with the airline miles we’ve stored up since 2018, but you redeem airline miles for flights, car rentals, and hotels.

Early in planning the KC trip, I dropped air travel. An AA flight to KC — 240 miles west — would require that I head south for a layover in Dallas Texas, which is stupid and wasteful. Then I’m not using a car for anything because KC is relatively small, and I fell in so in love with this hotel that I want to give them money. They have watercolor classes. At the hotel.

It’s like I’m a target and the hotel is romance scamming me. It’s almost suspicious.

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When I started with Chicago plans, I looked at the Palmer House. Glorious lobby, but tatty rooms. I was on the fence so I looked some more.

I saw a very central hotel, the Pineapple hotel, with a price in the $200s that looked like a high-end boutique. Really nice hotel, 15 stories, good area.

And then I saw this.

”Well,” I thought, “That must mean that you have to walk steps to get from the lobby to the lobby bathroom.”

And then I saw this.

This 15 story property doesn’t have elevators? Or are they just weeding out the fatties and the olds? Is it like when the zip line operators said I had to be able to climb a 15-foot ladder, and there was no ladder, they just wanted a certain type of clientele?

Anyway, they have weeded me out. I might have to stay at the Palmer House, poor me.

I was focusing on how to make my leftover chicken palatable for the five minutes Gary spent ranting about Elon Musk. According to Gary, Musk has a plan to build a robot-operated satellite factory on the moon.

That’s why I was a little distracted when he stopped ranting and I said, “Maybe Elon’s just talking. Maybe he’s trying to distract us because that old part of one of his spaceships fell into the moon today.”

And then the seven-year-old version me who lives in my head said, “You live in science fiction but you sound bored about it!”

I have noticed that I have been getting more compliments lately. They fall into these categories.

Comparisons with actresses

I have been told I resemble actress Catherine O’Hara twice in the last few months. I assume this is because I am wearing a wig, and because she had a long jaw, as have I. Then I heard a comparison to Joan Cusack, and I thought, “That tracks, another long-jawed woman.” I haven’t heard any comparisons to Meryl Streep for decades, but we can all agree her jaw is generous as well.

Wig Compliments

Speaking of wigs, when strangers tell me my hair is so pretty, I usually answer, “Thank you, it’s a wig,” which is a correction and a downer. I cracked the code this weekend though. When someone said my hair was pretty, I replied, “I think so too, that’s why I bought it.”

Youthful appearance

Last year I was 62, and I told my honest age whenever asked, and no one said diddly-squat about it. This year, I answer I am 63, and jaws drop. Productions are made. Skin care secrets are demanded. (Yes, even though I currently have a pimple on my left chin.) I answer “Noxema?” Of late I confess to using the Pricey Cream on both sides of the wattle now, but not the face, because it is so dear. I can take these compliments more gracefully than I can compliments about my plain face or wonky figure. I suppose that’s because people back it up with objective measures, pointing to their forehead vs my forehead.

Speaking of being 63, Hyatt Hotels starts giving the senior discount at 62. I will be 64 when I check in next week. I’ve always piggybacked on Gary’s senior discount. Nice to get some use out of it myself.