June 5th, 2009 | 2 comments | Social Media

It seems that there is always one event that has to go wrong before everything can go totally right. The last moment like this was when I almost didn’t have enough credits to graduate in August. The time before that? I lost my best friend because I chose to pursue my career instead of entertain our friendship (really, it was an ultimatum, I’m not just saying that). This time, I hope, I’ve already gone through the horrible part and the rest of this weekend will be successful. 

It all started when I got to the airport. I found parking, awesome. I’m saving money by not taking a cab, and by parking economy. Awesome. I get on the shuttle, no problem. I get to the terminal and the line to print my boarding pass is outrageous. Wrapped twice around the little queue area. This is where my meltdown begins. I’m sweating even though the air in this place is cranking. My heart rate quickens. I am checking the time every five seconds.This is my karma for not having an ink cartridge in my printer. Or for not printing my boarding pass at school yesterday.

I finally get up to the kiosk to print my boarding pass and suddenly, next to the one I’m using, what do I see but a kiosk for just printing passes. I’m a light traveler this weekend so I’m not checking any bags. There goes 20 minutes of my life that I won’t get back. I text my Dad and ask him to check the wait times for security at the Southwest concourse at Tampa International. He says 35 minutes. I’m going to be cutting it close.

I cut off a kid and his parents to get to the far end of the shuttle that takes you to the terminal. I step off into the security area and there is no line. Thank you, the travel gods are looking over me. I tell the first guy how happy I am to see him and not have to wait. He tells me to have a nice flight. And he winks. I’m thinking my Dad sensed a potential meltdown and either completely pulled that number out of nowhere or overestimated so I would be happy with the actual wait time.

I put all my stuff in a bin or seven (seriously, I’m not good at this part) and the TSA lady tells me my computer needs to be in its own container. No problem, she runs the computer, my shoes, my ID and my boarding pass through in their own little bins. My laptop bag needs inspection because there is some kamikaze water bottle in there and we can’t find it. Good to know for future concerts or something, if I need to smuggle in my camera, but not good today. This process takes a good five minutes while the guy digs through my bag.

We finally find the rogue water bottle and toss it, and then I head to the gate to get in line. I sit down and realize I never got my boarding pass or ID back. Shoes? Check. Liquids? Check. Carry-on baggage? Got it. No ID, no boarding pass. I take a deep breath and approach the TSA checkpoint and ask if they have my ID. Apparently nothing’s been turned in.

Here come the water works. It’s only sprinkling at first.

Then the TSA guy is making appropriate assumptions based on my hair color and asks if my ID and/or boarding pass in my pockets. Or my luggage. Or my hands (seriously?) or if my ID is in my wallet. “Okay no sir, I’ve checked everything. Where could my stuff possibly go?”

“If we find it, we’ll page you, so listen for your name.”

His condescending tone added insult to injury and the monsoon is about to erupt from my tear ducts.

I know my makeup is all kinds of messed up, but I’m pretty sure my streaked mascara isn’t spelling out “SPEAK. SLOWLY. I. AM. BLONDE.” on my forehead. So I take another deep breath, followed by the equivalent of hurricane-grade storm of tears and I call my mom.

Fortunately I’m a smarty and I packed my passport. So I won’t be stranded in Chicago or anything, I’ll just be without a driver’s license. Then my mind starts reeling:

“What if this is a sign? What if I need my license to get the apartment and this doesn’t work out? Is this the God of PR’s way of telling me that I’m about to make a horrible move? Why, after immense planning and total preparedness for any Chicago-related emergency is this happening to me?”

My mom all the while is spouting logical, rational solutions. All of which are appreciated but all I want is for my plan to go my way. Everything I plan goes my way. That’s why I plan it.

I go up to the counter to have my boarding pass printed out again and the printer isn’t working. The lady at the desk thinks it is hilarious. I’m not laughing. In fact, I’m continuing to experience my pre-Chicago, pre-life-altering-weekend meltdown. The hilarity continues at the desk as she fumbles around with the “unable to reprint” error message. I’m about to become dehydrated due to the rapid speed of water loss. Finally it reprints.

I figure out where the hell I’m supposed to be standing in this new cattle call system in place by Southwest and I’m still crying. The guy in front of me gets his coffee taken away. They’re testing liquids with Q-tips. Now I wish I had my water bottle. Pretty sure there was rum in there from a little weekend on the boat with the boys. I could pretend I’m sipping on an umbrella drink somewhere instead of being in Hell on Earth (aka gate C37). But, the guy’s coffee gets hijacked from his hand, so I’m happy that the water bottle had to go.

I’m 15 seconds away from boarding the plane when I hear my name. Crisis averted. Issue resolved. And I laugh. A lot. And keep crying, but the fun kind, because now I’m laughing.

I get on board and the captain says: “I don’t know if you know this, but the captains wake up in the morning, head down to the hotel lobby and pick out their flight attendants. We overslept this morning, so you’re stuck with these three.”

Plane erupts in laughter.

The guy next to me asks me if I snore.

“Like a chainsaw, man. Really loud.

“A sense of humor, I like that,” he says.

After the morning I’ve had… All I can do is laugh.

Windy City, you better bring it, because I’m ready. Really ready. 

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