Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.
~Helen Keller
It’s mid-July and I’m checking into a hotel in Boston at 10:30 a.m., early enough to get in a run before the conference begins. It’s Friday, and I haven’t met my mileage goal for the week. But free from family and job responsibilities, I am determined to get back on track.
I open my suitcase on the bed and pull out my running shoes, socks, singlet, and painter’s hat. I dig deeper. I try not to panic, but I find myself yanking out articles of clothing and flinging them across the bed until the suitcase is empty. I raise my hands to my head. Where are my running shorts?
I enter attack mode. I unzip zippers and shove my hands deep into secret compartments. I check inside my running shoes, dress shoes, and even my sports jacket pockets. All empty. I stop. I have to face reality; I failed to pack my running shorts.
I check my watch. The conference starts in an hour, no time to shop for new shorts. I survey the clothing scattered across the bed. My eyes fall on my green paisley, short pajamas. I pick them up by the ribbed, elastic waistband. The length works, but when I insert a hand inside the thin material, light from the hotel window silhouettes my fingers.
I undress and pull the pajamas over my briefs. According to the mirror, I should be going to bed, not for a run. But as I put on my singlet and socks and tie my running shoes, I remind myself that this is Boston, a large, diverse city. Once outside, I’ll blend into the cityscape of pedestrians, joggers, dog walkers, and street people. I will become invisible. I grab my plastic room key. Drat! No pocket in my “running shorts.” I slip the key under my cap. Problem solved, or so I think.
I enter the hall outside my room. I am relieved to find no one in sight. I head for the exit door and jog six floors down the concrete staircase. At the bottom, I pause with my hand against the lobby doorknob, waiting for my confidence to catch up with me. Do I really dare to do this?
I crack open the door an inch. A gaggle of hotel guests crowds around a bank of elevators watching the floor indicator lights overhead. I take a deep breath and push open my door. A few heads turn toward me and then back as I head for the lobby, where I cruise by the check-in line without drawing a glance. I push through the revolving glass door and step out into the sunshine. A cacophony of street sounds beckons me with the promise of anonymity.
I stretch against the side of the hotel building before setting out on a scenic route suggested by the concierge at check-in. The heat and humidity are already stifling. This run will be more challenging than I thought.
I jog through parks shaded by impressive oaks and around ponds festooned with flowers and shrubbery. I join the parade of pedestrians pushing strollers, sipping drinks, and chatting with friends. I even spot an occasional jogger. I have become part of the cityscape, pajamas notwithstanding.
My run takes me through upscale neighborhoods of red-brick rowhouses accented with window boxes and enclosed by black wrought-iron fences. After 40 minutes, the heat, humidity, and hills take their toll. My head feels like a radiator, and my breathing is labored. I regret not hydrating properly before my run. An unattended hose lies on the red-brick sidewalk with water running from it. I grab it and remove my hat. I let the cool water stream over my head and shoulders and down my front and back. So refreshing! I don’t care that I am drenching my clothing.
When I reenter the hotel, I am still soaking wet. Inside the lobby, I lift my hat and feel for the plastic room key I had cleverly placed there. No key. It must have fallen out when I cooled off with the hose. The only hotel employees I see are the receptionists processing check-ins. Luckily, only a lady and her daughter are waiting in line. I get behind them, but when I spot my reflection in a gigantic wall mirror, I nip over to the tourist information rack and grab the biggest brochure I can find. I return to the line.
The little girl, about eight, turns to stare at me. My wet pajamas cling to my body. I hold the tourist information booklet strategically.
“Mommy,” she says, “why is that man wearing pajamas?” Her voice is loud and clear.
“What man?”
“That man standing behind us.” She points at me as though I am an inanimate object.
Her mother throws me a glance and shushes her daughter immediately.
I look down at my watch, pretending to check the time.
“He stinks, too,” says the girl. “Maybe he’s homeless.”
Her mother grasps her daughter’s hand and pulls her toward a receptionist without being called. I remain standing and holding my brochure — wet, apparently smelly, and definitely visible. I hear someone shout my name from a distance.
“Hi, Dave! Been out running?” I cringe.
A conference colleague from the Midwest waves at me from across the lobby.
“Hi, Jean!” I say. I lock my eyes onto hers as though I can prevent hers from drifting. “Yeah. Time for a shower.”
I wave and walk toward the reception counter as if I had been called. “Catch you later.”
When a receptionist becomes available, I explain my plight to a pleasant lady. I ask for a replacement key.
“No problem,” she says. “I just need to see your ID.”
“Sorry, sir. I can’t issue a new room key without an ID.”
“And I can’t get my ID without a room key.”
“One moment, please.” She disappears through a door behind the reception counter and returns with a manager.
“I will be happy to accompany you to your room, sir. You can retrieve your ID, and I will give you a new key.”
As we proceed to the elevator bank, I remain close to him so that he is less likely to notice my attire. But I had forgotten about my smell.
“This way, sir,” says the manager. He bypasses the elevators and waiting guests and takes me around the corner to a small elevator. He scans his card.
“This is the staff elevator,” he says. “It will be more convenient for you.”
When we arrive at my room, he opens the door, and I show him my ID. He gives me a new room key. I check my watch. The conference has started. I will miss the information presented in the first session. But I am not too disappointed for I have already learned a valuable lesson, albeit the hard way: Don’t run in your pajamas!
— D.E. Brigham —