I’m on Southwest Flight out of Nashville, Tennessee headed for Denver, Colorado. In fact, this plane should hit the tarmac in approximately 30 minutes. This will be the first time in eight years that I’ve been alone with my little sister, free of chaperones, hospital surroundings and courtrooms. That makes this trip unique in more than ONE way. Already!
I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve made it to bed the night before a flight without sailing way-y-y over into the post-midnight, bleary-eyed, guaranteed-to-feel-gritty-and-amped-all-day waters: that was just last night. Of all the things I am most proud of where my responsible adult behavior is concerned, that will hold a Top 5 spot for the rest of my life. No joke!
Usually, my OCD anal-retentive nature kicks into high gear and the manic me steers the ship against all practical currents and straight into the rocks on some distant shore not ever intended for docking. And I plop right down in the midst of the wreckage as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a grown woman to count out Q-tips – 2 per day with extras for runaway mascara; roll extra pairs of undies in case of bloat or pantie lines; grind flax seed – because those 2 tablespoons a day on the road keep the system moving along, if you know what I mean; pot plants because they look root bound and might possibly wither before I return; clean out the fridge; squeeze in 21 extra push-ups; pack a carry on and purse for a possible emergency “Let’s Make A Deal” appearance – dental floss, tweezers, paper clip, safety pin, nail file, Band-Aid, flash drive, magazine, novel, notebook, chargers, laptop; and type detailed lists on what should be done for the sick dog, the healthy dog, the ornery cat and my plants, on a daily basis . . . at 2 in the bloody morning!
On top of all that ridiculosity (yes, even in the midst of my travel rituals, I realize the incongruity of it all, because crashing a ship DOES have an impact!), are the early AM flights which require a 4:30 alarm just to save the thirty or forty bucks difference between 6:05 and 10:20 morning departures.
This time around, I chose that 10:20 take-off on the advice of my husband. This time around, I decided I could put off packing the toiletries and weighing my bag until morning, because I recalled all those many concerned voices of friends and family who kindly and frequently remind me that my constant fatigue and pushing through my days could actually mean I NEEDED those hours of sleep I habitually deny my body. This time around, I figured someone else could be that girl who worried so much about forgetting something that she did everything on the list and more . . . and still forgot something! This time around, I thought that maybe, ju-u-ust MAYBE, travel prep could be relegated to a status less significant than the actual trip itself.
This time around, I wanted the ship to actually get the chance to fully sail.
I like it. I like it a lot.
I leave behind Hank the Wonder Pup and those dirty paws he so eagerly placed on my jumper when he decided he wanted to be a jumper, too. Fabio the orange kitty showed up on the window sill looking quite worse for the wear – missing the tip of his left ear, face smeared with still-red blood and remnants of once flying fur all over him – and my concerned Miss Ashley promptly cleaned him up and scheduled a mid-morning vet appointment: 2 weeks of antibiotics and indoor restriction, folks. Again!
Zachary hugged me long and hard before driving off into the high school horizon; Sarah called to wish me a safe and relaxed trip. I enjoyed a rare morning commute with the hubby and am lovingly wearing a spilled spot of his stout sunrise-recipe coffee on my pristine white tank top. The security routine at the airport ran swiftly and smoothly. Same thing in the Starbucks line, “Hello, my little soy latte friend!” I met a woman and her husband returning from Rwanda, the trip of their lifetime, where they met the teenage girl they’ve been sponsoring for years. And as I’m taking in the patchwork farmland of Colorado far below – “I’m almost in Denver, Sister Rebekah!” -- I’m tickled to have lucked upon a seat next to a woman flying with her doped-up wee Yorkie in its handy little pet carrier, tucked securely beneath the seat in front of her.
My bladder needs voiding but I’m pulling a Hank (he holds it for hours when he’s not in his own back yard – don’t worry, I merely desire a toilet where the flushing sucks the contents into the sewer instead of a storage tank). Until then, I’m not worried about much. For once.
Maybe I’ll crack open that danged novel I’ve tried to tackle since Christmas of last year. Or maybe not.
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