was just mean. It cost me four hundred dollars to replace it—and I lost a week’s worth of photos I hadn't downloaded yet. I met Kyle at the end of a tour and I'd had photos on that camera for a blog post I'd wanted to write about eating in Philadelphia for under twenty dollars. The guy's an heir to a retail empire, so surely he could afford to buy his own camera, and with a discount likely.
The worst part was that it hadn't even fazed me that badly. I'd once caught a guy I was dating taking money out of my wallet to pay for a pizza he'd ordered—without even asking. And he'd ordered a pizza with olives. I hate olives. Boyfriends who drank my last LaCroix or didn’t have pizza money were sort of the norm, so the camera-stealing had felt like a natural evolution. I deserve better, I know. I'm working on it.
I sigh as I exit the airport through a set of automatic doors. I'm usually in a cab within twenty minutes of a flight landing because I travel with nothing but a carry-on. I'm an expert at packing light and efficiently.
You know who can't pack light?
People with kids.
People with kids travel with two checked bags, a gate-checked stroller and a stuffed kitten named Colechester that cannot be lost under any circumstances unless you're looking for all hell to break loose, David.
Fine, that example might be specific to the family that was sitting in the row behind me on the flight from Chicago. But still. You know it's true.
Kids come with a plethora of crap. And they leave a trail of cheese-flavored crackers shaped like fish everywhere they go. They kick the back of airplane seats. They scream. Sometimes they toss one of those crackers at your head while their parents aren't looking because they've closed their eyes in exhaustion before the plane has even taken off.
They also wave and say hi in the sweetest baby voice imaginable. And they smile at you like you're in on some great joke together. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, they even offer to let you hold a slightly damp kitten named Colechester, so they can't be all bad.
I say a silent prayer that my kid will not be a seat-kicker. And that I'll be able to purchase a backup of their favorite toy. And embed a tracking device inside of it so if it's ever lost I can track it down. The toy, not the kid. I'm not gonna lose the kid.
Speaking of backup, mine is calling.
"Did you chicken out already?" I ask as I answer the phone while joining the line for cabs, my carry-on gliding smoothly behind me. I launch into a lecture-slash-pep-talk about how easy impersonating me at work will be while I join the line for a cab.
About that.
Plan B started with getting my sister out of my house. That sounds worse than it is. I love my sister. I love her more than anyone in the world, which is why I needed to protect her by getting rid of her.
Violet is my identical twin, and she's in a bit of a panic because I've asked her to fill in for me this week. Fine, if we're being technical about it I've asked her to impersonate me for the week. Which sounds worse than it is. Or maybe it is exactly as bad as it sounds? Sure, it's insane but it's also a really great idea.
I'm a tour guide for Sutton Travel. Or I was. Technically I still am, but my days are numbered. Not because I'm not a great tour guide. I am. My customer reviews are excellent. My employment file is squeaky clean and I love the job. Love it.
But.
It's not a job I can do with a kid. So tick-tock.
Now imagine having another person in the world who looks exactly like you. It'd be very short-sighted of you not to enjoy the benefits of that, wouldn't it? I think it would. For the record, it's not as though I've ever used the twin switcheroo with ill intent or for personal gain, except for that one time when we were thirteen and I convinced Violet to take a science test for me. We never did it again because it wasn't worth it. Sure, I got an A on the test, but Violet nearly combusted from the guilt and then forced me to memorize the periodic table so she could live with the