Hypergamy

I rarely get lost, but when I do, I am not particularly receptive to requests to pull over for directions.  This is one of my many faults.  I am not sure if this allergy to being told I am lost is genetic or environmental.  Either would work in my case – I grew up at the feet of the master – Mr. “I am not lost, woman.”

I am equally allergic to the “did you remember to pack . . .?” question.  My wonderful wife has adapted well to my maladies and rarely pushes my buttons, having concluded long ago that the “natural consequences” approach to child-rearing also occasionally works well with recalcitrant husbands.  Accordingly, she did not suggest that I consider taking a t-shirt and a pair of underwear in my backpack.

She simply remarked, “I always do this just in case the checked luggage doesn’t arrive.”

“Good for you.”

While I appreciated her subtlety, there is nothing subtle about my inflated perception of my own manhood, which such comments directly undermine.

Consequently, as I write this part of the post, I am approaching fifty hours in the same underwear.  The now-familiar sinking feeling enveloped me as the airport baggage crew gave me the “what-are-you-looking-at-Mzungu?” stare when I went stuck my head in the back room after the empty luggage carousel mocked me.  They simply shook their head and motioned to the emptiness surrounding them after fielding my inquiry.

Soon thereafter, I was informed that my bags spent some extra time in Amsterdam and that they should be arriving in Uganda a mere twelve hours late.  Good thing I didn’t have any meetings set for today, unlike last time this happened.

My ensemble last time my luggage didn't arrive

When I told Joline my bags didn’t arrive, she didn’t say “I told you, so,” but she gave me one of those really good “I told you so” looks that even the fuzzy Skype connection failed to mask.  An ever-so-quick flash of a grin, coupled with an ever-so-faint eye-brow raise said everything it needed to say.  It also gave her plausible deniability.  My kids, however, lack the tact of their mother.  “You’re an idiot” about captures their sentiment, though they were a bit less gentle than that.

Speaking of my manhood being questioned, I had a hard time sleeping last night without my sound machine and three pillows, all of which were comfortably tucked into my checked baggage.  I was, however, smart enough to save an ambien for when I arrived.  I had dozed off and on during my LAX to Amsterdam and Amsterdam to Nairobi flights, so it was good to get some pharma-zzz’s.  But after about five hours, I awoke to the distinctly African morning noises – call to prayers from the local mosque, thunderstorms, and indigenous bird squawking.  It is good to be back here.

Six Hours Later . . .

After spending the morning working at the courthouse waiting for my luggage to arrive, I received a call from the airport.

“Your suitcase is now on the way to Kampala from the airport.”

“Excellent.  Wait, suitcase?  Don’t you mean suitcases – two of them?”

“Sorry, sorry.  We only have one of them.  The other one will be on one of the other flights.”

“Um, OK.  When are the other flights?”

“Tonight.”

When my suitcase (singular) arrived, I once again had to relive the humiliation that inevitably accompanies me whenever I travel to Uganda.  (We only own two large suitcases, and I need both of them to bring my pillows with me).  One would think I would be numb to the embarrassment, but apparently I am immune to this form of Novocaine.  So when the delivery guy opened the back of the van and asked me which bag was mine, I knew what was coming.

“Um, that one.”  I said as I sheepishly pointed to the suitcase straight out of a Hannah Montana prop closet.

Me and my source of humiliation

“Are you serious?”

“Go ahead, get it out.  I am just here for your entertainment,” I deadpanned.

He just shook his head, and chuckled a bit.  I thought I heard him mumble, “Here you go, Eunuch,” as he handed it to me, but I may have been projecting.

I guess the silver lining of having my luggage lost is that only one person gets to laugh and point.  I usually disseminate that pleasure among an entire wing of the airport.  The standard line is: “You sure that one’s yours, buddy?  It looks just like so many of the other ones.”  Good thing I don’t cuss.  (At least as far as you know, mom).

When I got the suitcase up to the office and opened it, I was once again confronted with the fact that I am a hypergamist.

If one Googles “Marrying Up,” the first hit is for the Wikipedia page for Hypergamy.  And if one clicks on that link, my picture pops up as the quintessential case.  For those of you who know both me and Joline, this is little more than a “duh” statement.  But how is it relevant here?

Well, when I unzipped my Disney Channel souvenir, I remembered that Joline had separated my underwear and t-shirts into two piles and had put one pile into each suitcase.  (Yes, she packs my suitcases.  See id. at Hypergamy).  Her ostensible purpose was to balance the cushion load so that the electronic equipment I was “muling” for a Ugandan judge would not get damaged in transit.

But I was too smart for her – I figured out that she was hedging against the possibility that one of my suitcases wouldn’t make it.

And I resented her for it.

Which is why I am a hypergamist.

And today, quite proud of it.