I am sitting in the
I have 28% of my battery power left in my computer and there are no outlets in sight.
Flash back to last Sunday to get the full story- I am taking a short domestic flight to my little family vacation, albeit with a connection, my godparents have dropped me off at the newark airport and I think, "Gosh, maybe this time, just maybe, it'll go smoothly. After all (I perfectly logically reason), my dad took care of the reservations and that somehow means it’ll be fine.” Right?
My flight to
And you know, flying under these conditions- not so fun. I try as hard as I can to fight the twisting knot of anxiety that is settling itself firmly in my stomach. I try to reassure myself with the “there will always be another flight even if I miss my connection” gimmick. Ha. By mid-flight I have read the entire Sunday New York Times cover to cover. No joke.
We land. Why in the world does it take so long once a plane lands to get to the gate, to hook up that little jetway doohickey, and let us off this ancient piece of metal? Furthermore, I am in Row 16. The little announcements they make about “please let people off who have tight connections” I think is really just a farce of a courtesy. But in this case, I used audible and forceful “EXCUSE ME’s” to get as far up as I can possibly manage before that little jetway door opens. And I run across the terminal.
And you know what I see out those big gynormous airport terminal windows that invariably have a smudges from children’s faces that have smooshed against them watching planes fly away? My plane! Hooray! Hallelujah!
Oh but no. I see my plane pulling away from the jetway. I swear to you it is straight out of a Michelle Pfiffer movie or something, and I am waiting for the camera to zoom in on my sad little face and focus in as one tiny little tear drops down one tiny little pale cheek.
BUT I HAD FIVE MINUTES!! I think to myself.
But, but but.
I gather myself together, refusing to cry, because I know that it’s not my fault, I shouldn’t be upset about uncontrollables, I should be ABOVE this, right?
I walk to the “customer service” desk, talk to the man who informs me that I am already booked on a flight that is leaving 2 hours from now. I ask him as politely as I can if there is a flight any sooner than that. He looks at me with the condescension that only a man who deals with angry travelers all day can pull off and replies, “It’s TWO hours.” Right.
So I wait. I call my friend Lisa who lives in
Flash forward to now. So in case it’s not already been made crystal clear, I don’t like being in airports any longer than is absolutely necessary. I don’t check bags. I don’t do connecting flights. My average time to arrival at an airport before the flight is 45 minutes. 70 minutes for an international flight. That would be the AVERAGE. Now, add in the fact that I’m traveling with my family- their golf bags, their anxieties, their rental car, and their flight that leaves an hour before mine, and
I see that there is a flight for
We board, a little late, but no big deal. We sit on the flight. And sit. You’ll never guess what it is this time. A bird hit the plane as it had come into
We land. Fortunately this time around I’m in Row 3, but unfortunately this time my connecting flight is in an entirely different terminal, just to spice things up a bit. I have 10 minutes before my flight leaves and come hell or high water, I will not miss that flight. So I run. In my long sleeve shirt, skirt, and flip flops. Carrying my computer bag and pulling my luggage. I am “that girl” running through the airport, frenzied, anxious, flailing about. I run past the lovely rocking chairs that are unique to Charlotte, watching people relaxing and rocking. I hate them.
I get to my gate and see people standing in line to board. HALLELUJAH!
Only I feel like my left lung has collapsed and that I am in the
And around and around we go.