Wannabe reporter? Lois Lane?
I took flight this morning. I slowed time this morning. I parted a freeway like Moses and the Red Sea.
I’m not bragging. I just have no business being in California on time after what happened this morning.
I had a perfect week in New York, which, let’s face it – it would have been a drag if I didn’t because I already know I’m going back one-way ticket, multiple pieces of checked-luggage style in a month. It would have been a bit of a life crisis to have to deal with and I’m glad I avoided it.
But oh my.
I sent an e-mail last night that started with “I never sleep the night before a plane ride.” What I meant is I’d stay up unreasonably late, wake up at 5:45a.m. and know I was going to sleep on the plane all day anyway.
That e-mailed sentence came back to haunt me and my 7:55a.m. flight out of Albany.
I woke up at 7:03. My cousin was yelling down the stairs. “Janae, Mom wants me to make sure you’re alright for your flight.”
I’m in a sleepy daze. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Last time I said “Yeah, I’m fine” to a cousin, it was this cousin’s brother, I had fainted from too much coffee + slamming my finger in the door.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“YOU’RE NOT FINE.”
He was right. I was sitting on the kitchen floor.
This time, it was 7:03a.m. and I was still in bed.
Panic sets in. 52 minutes to take-off. Am I packed? Not entirely. Gas in the car I borrowed? Nope. Not the socially-graceful-more-than-I’d-found-it-with, not even enough for her to get home when she grabs it at the airport.
It’s 7:10. I’ve packed long enough to ensure the laptop and camera are coming, a process that had included a 3-second debate at the top of the basement stairs. Are they worth it?
I throw on jeans. I’m yelling “Oh no oh no oh no” to my cousin.
It’s 7:13. I’ve brushed the top half of my head straight, leaving last night’s curls in a puff. I realize as I’m running to the car – bra on? I’m not even sure. Plenty of time to find out when I start living in Albany today, because I drained any financial savings “cushion” I had on this trip. My bank account has the cushion of a Walmart clearance bike seat. I can’t afford to miss this flight.
I fly down the Northway. I park the car in obscure space (that pole by that far end?) and I start running. As fast as you can be running with a wheeled suitcase, bag, purse… Oh and my high-heeled boots.
I pulled muscles in my lower back. I think I sprained my knee.
I have a half-marathon in 60 hours.
No line to check in and I’m running the high heel run to security. Bags thrown on the line, toiletries not in plastic bags because let’s face it – they’re all still at my cousin’s.
“Ma’am, do you have anything in your pockets?”
No, no I don’t, but… What… Wait… Oh god.
On a six day trip, rushed around, out with friends, outfits changed regularly, no laundry done… Worn clothes got left in piles often. Mad-dash packing had occurred.
I’d thrown on jeans I’d worn the other day. I’m going through security, gruff man is sternly asking “Not even paper?” in my pockets…
There is Monday’s pair of socks and underwear lodged in the leg of my pants, just around my kneecap.
Oh. My. God.
How am I going to explain this one. “Dad, I missed my flight because they had to pat me down, and… Dad, your daughter’s kinda a mess.”
Or “Mom, what really did me in was that the underwear wasn’t a thong. It was the kind shaped like shorts. You know, because they’re so comfy. It was all the extra fabric that got me sent to the private screening area.”
The worst part of this fear- Albany security now has the booths that you walk into, turn sideways, put your arms over your head as if you’re partway through a jumping jack, and hold the pose for three seconds.
That said… I was seated on the plane at 7:37a.m.
Part of me is still in Saratoga. I know, I know, I left my heart in Saratoga (barf). But really… Check this out!
What a day. What a day, what a day, what a crazy day.