In the past, my excellent husband always scoffed at this ridiculous-nothing-to-do-with-sports edition. I watched his loving gesture of throwing it directly from mail box to recycling bin. (See-- he even loved the earth).
Four years ago, yes- I actually remember when it started, he didn't recycle it. He thumbed through it. Stay with me, the curse begins here.
The NBA All Star game that year promised to be wild-- It was in Vegas! The glitz soon disappeared as statements like, "...advised to stay indoors," and "...fatal shooting," gained attention.
The following year, New Orleans hosted the game. Enter Chris' friend and co-worker Zach. Days before leaving, my husband not only perused the magazine, but my 7 year old son did, too. This is like soft porn for a first grader! Zach ended up with severe food posioning. Couldn't leave the hotel room for days.
Last year, after the magazine came, my husband got sick. Those of you who know Chris probably realize he NEVER GETS SICK. He spent last year in Phoenix high on flu meds the whole time.
This week, the SI swimsuit edition came in the mail. I commented that the girl on the front was toppless and holding the swimsuit. My husband replied, "she had a swimsuit." He then tucked the magazine into his luggage for "something to read" in Dallas.
He arrived in Salt Lake with a cancelled connecting flight. NO flights into Dallas. Snow was settling on the city, as were thousands of NBA related people. He begged a flight to Houston, where he could rent a car and drive to Dallas. "It's just like driving to Seattle," he assured me. Yeah-- if Seattle was in Canada, and the road looked like a ghost town-- with a blizzard. Ahh-- and the missing luggage. Where was his luggage- on a flight to Dallas. Picture him asking the gleeful ticket agent why his frickin' bags could get a flight to Dallas, and he couldn't.
Almost 5 miserable hours later, driving 40 MPH on the highway, dodging trucks kicking up snow on his mini suv, he arrived in Dallas. Quick check in, followed by a simple phone call. His luggage was in...HOUSTON.
Houston told me it was in Dallas.
You have to fill out the paperwork in person at the Houston airport.
I'm not driving back to Houston.
We'll let you fill out the paperwork in Dallas, but it has to be done in person at the airport. (Any of you ever been to the Dallas/Fortworth airport?)
Bless my tired husband for taking a town car to and from, instead of his already exhausted rental.
Fine-- your luggage will be on a flight at 10 tomorrow morning.
(Okay, I'm sure it wasn't that easy, but this story is getting long).
So Chris slept in the clothes he wore since 4 a.m. on his flight, and his drive. He brushed his teeth with his finger. He called the next morning to check the status.
We have no record of you requesting the bag.
Seriously? Is this a taping for a Saturday Night Live sketch?
So my poor husband is wearing THE SAME CLOTHES to meet with fellow sports marketing people, and many others-- players, coaches, agents, media?
A suit would have looked nicer than the hoodie and sweats. He skipped the ESPN party last night-- due to looking fugly.
Luckily, his luggage is supposed to be on a flight into Dallas this evening. Oh, but the bag will not make the 7 p.m. shuttle. You don't need it before 10 tonight, do you? He is heading to the airport to personally pull his luggage off the carousel. His last statement to the airline agent-- It better be there or I'm going to hunt you down.
Ahh, the curse. Hope you enjoy reading your SI swimsuit edition, honey! Well, if you ever get your luggage, that is.
