A Pack Whore In The Magic City

It is magically beautiful weather here in South Florida. I'm down for the week doing the meet and greet hustle. Building a practice, meeting new people, and new kidding my way to life on a fresh block. I'm down until Wednesday when I catch my JetBlue flight back to Manhattan. As I take off, She-Who-Visits lands with Mr. She for a little R&R togetherness.

I won't get to see her this time. At least a part of the reason I've spent the last two years slaving over exams, networking, setting up a new office, and trying to get a toe hold for a new life is to have a chance to be closer to She. I'd be doing it all without that hope, but She's inspired me to live the dream.

Irony oozes as I associate being down here with seeing her. And I won't be seeing her this time. But that's okay. It really is just fine. I don't for a moment begrudge her quality time with the man she loves. I've really come such a long way. What makes her happy, makes me happy. But I miss her.

I'd gotten her a gift she'd wanted for her birthday. A stripper pole! I'd ordered it sent to my apartment in the West Village and it arrived some time back in November. It was a massive, huge, heavy box and I had no clue how to get it to her. Duty charges were triple its cost and just lugging the thing around to send it off was a monumental pain in the ass. So it sat gathering dust in my new bachelor digs.

When I found out she was coming to South Florida for vacation I offered to ship it to her hotel for her to pick up and tow back to her idylic island in the Caribbean. I loaded it into a car service and after a meeting dropped it off for overland shipment from a little mailing outpost in the FiDi that has become one of my favorite little businesses in town.

Then about ten days ago, She informed me she was doing one of her internet shopping hauls. I suggested she have it sent to my Miami office and she could come pick it up or I'd just send it off to her Fort Lauderdale hotel. However, this past week when I arrived there were four bulky boxes, a bag, and a little Estee Lauder beauty box. Waaaay too much to FedEx. So I figured I'd drop it at the hotel for her on my way to the airport or on my way up to see Aarkey and his wonderful wife tomorrow night for dinner.

When I got up this morning it was just a picture perfect day. An 80 degree, blue skyed, slice of utter perfection. So I decided to dedicate the morning to playing pack mule. She and I chat regularly on the phone and I'd told her I love being her pack mule.

"More like my pack whore", she snarked.

"Pack Whore!", I laughed. "I'll be your Pack Whore anytime!"

And so I spent my morning pack whoring in The Magic City. Top down in the rental Mustang, music blaring on Florida's Turnpike, I arrived at her Broward County getaway with her booty in my convertible's boot. It's never easy with She. I had to break two of the bigger boxes down and dump her blouses, skirts, shirts, and shoe boxes into a garbage bag in order to cram all her crap into the trunk. I even saved the broken down boxes so she could tape them back up and return all the stuff that either didn't fit or didn't meet with her approval.

The nice woman at the hotel gave me one of those valet wheely carts with the big curved brass plated arches and carpeted floor trays to trundle She's load to the bell captain's closet. The cute concierge met me at the door and we wheeled the gargantuan cargo consignment to a crowded little room. As I was wheeling my pack whore's forward supply through the parking lot I had two guys fresh from the golf course snap a BlackBerry photo of me, which I immediately forwarded to She as proof of my devotion.

"She already has a big box in there", I informed the obliging concierge. "A large piece of exercise equipment".

"Well, you know how to make an entrance", she laughed.

She helped me unload and said she'd leave word at the desk that She had mail. Lots of mail.

As I was going back to the car to return for a Saturday afternoon in Vice City, my Crackberry vibrated in my pocket. It was She.

"I miss you soooo much!" She loves taking pictures of me hauling her stuff for her. It was a good shot. Me playing pack whore bell hop.

It's kind of like a ruined orgasm. Usually when I haul, I get to see her. No such luck this time. But as I blasted down I-95 with the hip-hop station turned way up loud, the whole morning brought me immense pleasure. I may not see her, but I was working my way back to her, thinking about all that I've won in my life.