I am a Mess....Literally

I often spill things, on myself, my desk, my new khaki pants...everywhere. But nothing compares to when I am supposed to look nice. I think the words "business casual" trigger something in my brain that makes me more of a mess. Let's start with my trip here. I am driving to a luxury hotel/conference center- a lot of money is put into these places and they are clean and nice. I order a brown cola beverage to get through the last couple hours on the road. I take a drink-about an ounce of that liquid drips onto the boob shelf. I pause, inspect the lid and straw apparatus to be sure I expertly connected the two to the cup and discover all seems normal. I take the lid off and reseal just to be safe. Again, I attempt to drink. Oh- was I proven a fool. Again it spilled! 

So when I arrive at the hotel I am standing in the check in line with men in tailored suits, women with Coach, Louis, and Gucci, and more diamonds than one can shake a stick at. Thankfully it was raining cats and dogs, and I did not valet like these other dry humans, so I looked like a drowned rat anyway. Sometimes I wonder if I started to care what people around me or in the immediate vicinity thought if I would be crippled with anxiety...

Fast forward to the next morning when I treated myself to a terribly overpriced spa experience. I grab a coffee. I drink coffee EVERYDAY. I must be good at it by now right? Nope. A white cardigan was supposed to make me appear tanner, healthier, maybe even appear to have a glow in the natural light pouring into the hotel. Well what does it say when you have three, not two, spots of coffee that dripped out of the invisible hole in your lip! And that boob shelf strikes again-now with a nice and very noticiable spot. So I walk into the spa where everyone has great hair and looks wonderful and I just smile-I know, I know-I am a mess :)

You thought this story was over didn't you? Oh no. Let's have breakfast. My favorite kind of breakfast- all you can eat. My kind of meal. I have to wear one of those name tags to get access to all the conference stuff so of course I am wearing it. I sit down and get settled in, elbows angled, to enjoy me some southern breakfast. When my name tag with that damn "Alumni" ribbon that I was so proud to adorn the tag with, runs right through my scrambled egg. Sort of just gracing the top layer of the eggs like a dry paintbrush blending some colors together at the instruction of Bob Ross. I look up-a woman across the table noticed and does the polite look down at her napkin situation as to save me the embarrassment. I have days left with this nametag so I have lovingly nicknamed myself scrambles because I am sure I smell like it. 

Today I braved khakis instead of the regular black of the wardrobe. Let's see if I can avoid spillage. Fingers crossed!