There are those of us born to entertain others.  I have been accidental entertainment to humanity—often when I am jet-lagged.  After crossing the Atlantic or Pacific, my brain turns into blue Jell-o.  For the life of me, I do not know how the President gets off Air Force One, steps down the ramp, and gives a brilliant speech about world peace to millions of viewers.  There must be something in the gene pool that enables someone to do that.  All I can think about when I get off one of those transoceanic flights is whether I am awake enough to navigate through Customs and then find the right restroom—not the men's like last time.  Maybe if I'm really lucky, I'll make it to the correct hotel and locate the room that matches the number on my key.  I'll try to figure out how to turn on the water faucet and differentiate between which bottle says shampoo and which says mouthwash.  Then, assuming I am successful with all of that, I might try to use the hairdryer—but only if I can deduce how to turn it on.  If that is too much for me, I'll just sit on the edge of the tub and drip dry. 
  In the early 1980's, my husband and I flew on Air France to Paris.  It was my first trip to Europe, and I was surrounded by a sea of well-heeled car dealers and their wives, most of whom were quite a bit older than myself.  I was so anxious about making a good impression—and well, not embarrassing my husband by saying or doing the wrong thing.  We were picked up at Charles de Gaulle Airport and delivered to the Intercontinental Hotel via bus.  Oh, those wives were dressed to the nines.  They were in Channel pantsuits or St. John's knits with pearls.  None of them had monkey hair that had become plastered to their scalps during the flight.  None of them had spilled an entire cup of coffee down the front of a hot pink outfit.  Just me.  Only me. 
  When we were finally tucked inside our room, we took showers and then quickly dressed again for a reception that was about to begin in our honor.   I agonized over what to wear, and finally chose a pantsuit.  I was quite woozy from sleep deprivation and a little nauseated from the orange juice I'd had on the flight .  It took everything I had, but finally, I was ready to go.  We left our room, trudged down the hallway and wedged ourselves into the back of the elevator with other car dealers and their wives.  I was feeling better, and even a little confident.  Oh, how the sin of pride snaps us quickly down to size.
   A perfumed, diamond ring covered hand reached over and tapped me on my shoulder.  The woman had perfectly coiffed brown hair and wore a navy blue Albert Nipon dinner suit.  Peering at me through her Yves St. Laurent glasses, she said, "I don't know how to tell you this....."
  "What?" I replied, afraid to know the answer.
  She pointed to my feet and burst out laughing.  I looked down and saw that a pair of pantyhose from my suitcase had somehow become wedged in my shoe and now trailed the entire length of the elevator floor.  I would have bent over, plucked them out and stuffed them in my purse, but there was no room to maneuver.  No, I had to wait until everyone in the elevator enjoyed laughing at them for the next twenty floors.  What I worried about was this:  not only had I schlepped pantyhose across the Intercontinental Hotel, but, horrors, I'd committed yet another fashion faux pas.  Anyone could see by the label that these were not been designer stockings.  They were L'eggs cheepies, the kind that came from a silver egg at Walmart.

At that moment, any aspirations I'd ever had about running for the office of President of the United States, vanished into a trail of nylon.