Up until now, being single has been completely, utterly, absolutely, positively, 100% - no, 1,000% perfectly fine with me. My INJF Myers-Briggs personality test results has led me a successful lifestyle of: sleeping, cooking, cleaning… all for a party of one. I’ve been quite content, if you ask me, but I know you’re not asking.

You see there was a boyfriend once, but he doesn’t even deserve that title. Let’s call him Rob. Up until now, I hadn’t even thought of Rob since he walked out of my life. Here’s the catch, Rob’s sister’s cousin’s best friend’s half-sister’s neighbor happens to be MY BEST FRIEND from childhood. Like we would take our filthy, stinky diapers off as babies and hide them under couches, in kitchen cabinets (Feel free to ask our parents why those things were, you know, not kid proof.), and obviously, in the kitty litter box. (It makes sense, right? Here kitty kitty. People ask why I’m I cat person. Um, they’re sooo independent? Like me? Yeah that’s it! Yes!) And then we would run around, butt naked, sitting EVERYWHERE, dirty cheeks and all.

Everyone has dirty laundry (literally and figuratively) but do you have a dirty diaper bond with your best friend?

We have matching tattoos on our butts. Of diapers.

I’m kidding.

Or am I?

I digress. I guess, sitting here in London Heathrow Airport, waiting out a delay, staring, glaring, at the Tile app, and seeing that Mr. Flamingo (my sparkly pink suitcase) was not registering as being located, I realized that maybe there’s like a 0.0001% possibility that being single isn’t great after all, because who’s going to approach the British Airways counter in Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport if Mr. Flamingo still isn’t found. Me? No, that’s crazy.

We board the flight to Paris - did I tell you I’m the maid of honor in my dirty diaper bonded best friend’s (but also Rob’s sister’s cousin’s best friend’s half-sister’s neighbor’s) wedding AND the wedding in going to be IN THE EIFFEL TOWER. They say Paris is the city of love or whatever but hopefully there isn’t an open bar that high off the ground.

Anyway we board the flight to Paris, and the Tile app still isn’t picking up Mr. Flamingo. I know I can’t do anything about it now, but slightly panicking because my dress and the rings, THE RINGS, are in Mr. Flamingo. (I’m so sorry, if that sounds dirty.) I knew I should have put them in Mrs. Flamingo (my matching carry on, that I have my eyes on and haven’t lost). Of course, there is nothing interesting in there, just toiletries, three books (because I don’t like Kindles and I have the attention span of a gnat), and my strapless bra, because, you know, all of those are priorities over the wedding bands.

——

A lifetime later, we tried to descend into Paris, not once, not twice, but three times. Apparently, the London Fog bought its own airfare ticket to join our travels and our pilot couldn’t see out of his window to make any sort of decision or airplane flying maneuver to land us safely.

When he did receive clearance from the tower, the plane landed on the runway with enough hops, skips, and jumps, to make stone skipping champions proud. Upon exiting the aircraft, I opened the Tile app yet again, and still, Mr. Flamingo wasn’t to be seen.

He also must’ve been lost in the fog.

At that point, I must’ve been sweating profusely or swearing out loud or both, because the teenage boy who had been sitting next to me the whole flight asked what was wrong as we were approaching the gate agents. It was either talk to him or them.

I told him my predicament, showing him the app, showing him that it is very clearly obvious that Mr. Flamingo isn’t in the country or even the continent.

He took my phone. And then said something about how my Bluetooth connection was turned off. Something again about turning the setting on.

He pushed some things and reopened the Title app.

There was the circle icon of Mr. Flamingo, in the same vicinity as me. Not lost in the London Fog of Paris.

I thanked my new friend and asked if I could buy him a drink as a token a gratitude, but he declined, laughing, telling me I’d get arrested. Huh, for a glass of lemonade or Diet Coke? I might be technologically challenged but I’m not an idiot.

I found my way to through customs and then to baggage claim. And there he was, Mr. Flamingo. It was so easy it was to spot him. He’s glittery and hot pink and you-can’t-miss-it on the conveyer belt. But more obvious than that was seeing Rob standing there, hand on my suitcase.

“I grabbed Mr. Flamingo for you, Darla. Do you want to share a ride to the hotel? ”