I woke up a week ago feeling like a sack of garbage. My throat was raw and there was so much pressure in my head that if I leaned over just so, my eyeballs threatened to jump right out of their sockets. I left work after a few hours and went home to bed.
The following morning, I begged Dallas to run me over with his truck because I figured the internal bleeding would distract me from trying to cut out my sinuses with a razor blade. He suggested that a visit to the doctor might be more productive.
I'm all for natural remedies like zinc lozenges and mammoth quantities of vitamin C and that is usually the route I take to treat the first signs of illness but Thursday morning as my doctor wrote out prescription after prescription for drugs that promised more immediate relief, I embraced my inner junkie. At that moment, if someone had told me that heroin would help, I would have gladly offered up a vein.
By Friday night, with antibiotics, steroids, decongestants and antihistamines coursing through my bloodstream, I began to feel better. Sunday night, I was confident that I'd be able to fly to Indianapolis the next morning.
I hate traveling.
To say that I have poor travel luck is a giant understatement but since I am aware of this, I aim low.
I expect to be delayed.
I expect that my rental car will not be ready.
I understand that my hotel room tub will invariably contain remnants from its last occupant.
I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that if there is a condensation leak, a faulty tray table or a broken air valve, my seat on the airplane will be the recipient of the malfunction.
I get it and I've learned how to cope.
Having said that, there is only so much a gal can take before she starts to wonder if the universe is trying to tell her something.
I arrived at my little airport to a nearly empty security area. There were four TSA agents, me and one other person. I placed my stuff on the security conveyor and walked through the metal detector. I didn't buzz off but the bored TSA agent on the other side decided to give me a "random pat down". That's what she said to me in this odd, conspiratorial, whisper as she asked me to spread my arms and legs. Creeped me out and ruffled my feathers just a bit but I figured that she was just trying to earn her keep so I made the conscious decision to blow it off.
Then, I wandered into the gift shop to grab a litre of water for the trip and had my corporate credit card declined. Apparently, someone had stolen my credit card number and was trying to rack up a bunch of charges with T-Mobile. Fabulous. Which meant I'd have to use my own card. What's the problem, you ask? Well, I'm not the most disciplined about applying the reimbursement cheque right back to my credit card. I don't know why; I'm just not.
After this little drama, I walked to my gate area to find that my flight had been delayed. No problem. Expected, right? To me, a delay is something that can be expressed in sixty minutes or less. When one is made to wait for HOURS AND HOURS, the airlines should have to call it something else like, "huge inconvenience" or "unreasonable waste of your time" or "meeting rescheduler" or "go get yourself an alcoholic beverage and tuck in for the long run".
Eventually, I did get a flight to my next destination. We were on a small plane which takes your carry on luggage and stows it in the belly of the plane because the overhead bins are too small. At our destination, we disembarked and waited at the end of the jet bridge for our bags to come up via an elevator. After twenty minutes, a gate was pulled up exposing the elevator and there they were. Except mine. I turned to the gate agent and asked if the elevator would go back down and come up with more bags.
Ummm..no.
Together we went back to the elevator and looked. Empty. "They must have mistakenly put it on the baggage carousel", she said.
Of course. Because that's how I roll, baby.
Stressed, I marched away in search of the baggage carousel, already in Plan B mode, thinking I might have to make some emergency toiletry and clothing purchases if my bag didn't turn up. Over the loudspeaker, I heard the gate agent calling me back. I arrived and watched her through the window of the closed jet bridge door as she dragged my carry on behind her. She flung open the door and inexplicably angry, she spat, "You left this on the elevator." For a split second, I contemplated reminding her that together, we had both looked at the inside of that empty elevator but I thought better of it, said thank you and left. I tried very hard to wish her love, joy and prosperity in my head although I may have slipped just a bit and given her the stink eye. At least I had my bag.
I arrived at the next gate only to learn that I was delayed. Again.
By this time, it was early evening, I had no chance of making my dinner meeting and I had been on the road for nine hours. I began an internal dialogue with myself (Some call it under-medicated. I call it coping.) and set my new goal as trying to reach the hotel before midnight. If it hadn't been for the 6 person queue and a single agent on duty at the car rental place at my destination or the fact that the Garmin navigation system maps hadn't been updated since Indy opened their new airport, I might have met my objective. But alas, at 11:30 pm, I was in STOP AND GO traffic on an Indiana freeway with a bloody Garmin on crack. For a fleeting second, I contemplated buying a pack of cigarettes at the next available exit. Instead, I cranked up the music until the speakers vibrated and sang myself hoarse.
After midnight, nearly fourteen hours since my trek began, I made it to my hotel room, stripped off my clothes and reached into the shower to turn it on. And I'll be darned but there wasn't a single, stray curly in the tub.
Thank god for small mercies.
