Step to the Back of the Line, Please

Exactly:  Without approximation; precisely.

I've been a traveling man the last ten days - visiting family which is always good for a few laughs if by "laughs" you mean "I'm going to kill some of these people if I stay a day longer."  I was busy as hell so I didn't make the time to write much.  Or meditate.  Or go to many meetings.  Guess what?  I'm close to a full blown psychosis at this point, thanks for asking.

Starting from the end then . . . 

I spent last night at an airport hotel in The Old City in preparation for a very early flight.  This hotel is about 18 miles from where my family lives, a distance about 18 miles further than anyone was willing to drive to drop me off several hours before the crack of dawn.  Fair enough.  I wouldn't enjoy getting up well before the crack of dawn to drive someone to the airport, either. And at the end of 10 days I was thrilled with the idea of sitting by myself in a quiet hotel room not listening to anyone else say anything else.  This introvert was tired of being around people, no offence intended.  I watched the clock tick for about 4 hours, making a real party of it with my tap water and Subway vegetable sandwich.

The alarm tinkles at 3:45 AM.  I stumble down to the hotel shuttle bus which deposits me directly at my terminal where I can conveniently view a board telling me my flight is delayed by two hours.  Let's forget the fact that I was less than thrilled about getting up two hours earlier than I HAD to for a flight that required me to get up about two hours earlier than I WANTED to had that flight not be delayed.  The real bugaboo was that the delay caused me to miss my connecting flight which caused me to miss my shuttle ride which made me very, very glad that I didn't try to smuggle my dad's antique shotguns onto the plane.  Luckily for me the next connecting flight was sold out so that I was looking at the prospect of getting home around never.  I bowed my head at the reservation counter.  I showed the agent the top of my pork pie hat.  I said not a word.  Maybe she thought I was praying.  I was most definitely not praying.  The words I said are not going to be found in any prayers books that I'm familiar with.

"Just go to the Help Desk in Denver and they'll print your boarding pass for whatever fucking flight they want," she said, or something like that.  I took off my belt and my shoes and put my little bottles of liquid in a clear plastic bag and displayed my computer for the security folks.  I flew to Denver.  I got off the plane and peed and washed my face, all leisurely-like.  I stood in line at the Help Desk and watched a few people cut in front of me without being able to hork up any righteous indignation.  I could hear the Help Person saying something about the third connecting flight also being full.  I wondered if the line jumpers were going to snag the last remaining seats on the eighth connecting flight.

"God, could you handle this for me?" I asked.  Notice I didn't ask for anything specific.  I get screwed when I get specific.  The god I pray to doesn't do requests - he twist them around all goofy-like.  This god isn't a big candy machine.  I don't pull a lever and get what I want simply because I ask all nice-like.

The Help Desk person asked me if I had been re-booked back in The Old City, seeming confused when I replied in the negative.

"Why not?" she said.  "There are seats on the next flight."

My day was improving.

"You're my favorite girlfriend today," I said.  "Just don't tell my wife," who wouldn't have cared, frankly.

"OK," she smiled.  "If you don't tell my husband."

Because the plane was full I actually got seated in an exit aisle, with the big, comfy legroom so enjoyable to tall, skinny hipster dufuses like me.  A few rows behind me I spotted the line jumpers, jammed into their puny coach seats.  Obviously the airline filled all of the standard cost seats before placing the last stragglers in the premium seats.  Ha ha ha.  Take that, line jumpers.

It gets better.  Once I arrived in Vacation City I got off the plane and peed and washed my face and made my way down to the Ground Transportation area.  The shuttle service I use leaves at specific times and my original flight had me waiting about two hours for a ride home.  Because my flight, as you may recall, was delayed two hours I walked right outside as the van was pulling up.

"You're my favorite girlfriend today," I said to the driver.  It was all I could come up with.  In my experience women enjoy being flattered by men who pose absolutely no risk.

So . . . I get home at exactly the same time as I had planned.  Exactly.

Someday I'll learn something about staying out of everything.