Just like many ill-fated stories begin
I had one wish.
Back when I was 22, I went on a very budget weekend trip with my boyfriend.
We planned it meticulously, down to the last decimal, how much it would cost us to go there, stay in a (not seedy) hotel, eat a couple of meals, and return without having to sell our belongings for the ticket back.
We took an overnight bus, ate protein bars for breakfast, stayed in a sufficiently seedy but not overtly dangerous hotel, walked everywhere, and didn’t even look at the drinks menu in restaurants.
Day 3 rolls around, and I was feeling pretty done with ‘budget’. I just didn’t think that a vacation should have you struggling more than your worst day at work.
So, ignoring all of my boyfriends' desperate calculations, I unilaterally decided that we deserve one night of comfort at a medium-fancy hotel and one dinner at their medium-fancy restaurant.
Excited by my new upgraded traveller status, I convinced myself that I had to saunter into that hotel like a brown Kendall Jenner. I had to be hot.
Why? I don’t know. I’ll be hard pressed to justify any thought I had at 22.
Once we checked in (no welcome drink 😏), I spent 1.5 hours getting ready. Trying on everything I packed.
Because what if I’m finally able to create a cute outfit combination with my pajama tops?
My makeup strewn everywhere, my suitcase thrown open on the floor, my hair straightened to an inch of its life. I was ready.
I was practically bouncing as we left the room
This is what life was meant to be: fancy hotels, candlelight dinners, cute outfits.
This was a small glimpse, a window into what the rest of my life is going to look like.
I strutted proudly towards the restaurant across the manicured lawn. Heads turned (in admiration, obviously?). Do people think I’m famous or something?
Then I noticed a woman scurrying across the lawn towards me, and for a second, I wondered if she was coming over to ask if I was Padma Lakshmi.
She angles up, making a cup with her hands like she wants to tell me a secret. I lean down and she whispers in my ear,
“Your zipper is open”.
Hah.
1 hour to get ready, and I didn’t manage to fully dress myself.
I look down and realize we’re not talking a zipper hanging open like a tiny slip of a pocket, something easily missed.
No. This was a GAPING hole in the front of my pants. It was so obvious that it almost looked intentional, like it was a part of some misguided uber Gen-Z outfit.
I look at my boyfriend– the very person in charge of avoiding exactly this scenario– and his face is red, his mouth pursed tight with barely contained laughter. Apparently, this is news to him too, and clearly funnier than it had any right to be.
Rolling my eyes, and angling my body away from other people (why are there so many people here again?), I say through gritted teeth, “just cover me for a second”.
And somehow Padma Lakshmi Lite, reduced to fumbling with her own pants zipper in public, managed to hide her polka-dotted secret from the world.