It was over brunch this past Sunday when Mike was discussing his week's travel plans that I realized, "oh shit, that's right, I'm going to Florida tomorrow."
A few highlights/lowlights of what it may be like to travel with me:
You will always pick the wrong line (vintage Murphy's Law): Before even leaving Boston soil, you will manage to fuck this trip up. With 2 entrances to the concourse that you are looking for, you will pick the one with one x-ray machine and only a few people instead of the one with multiple machines and a much longer line. With only 10 people in front of you, you will think to yourself, "Jackpot!" Thirty minutes later with what you assume to be elevated blood pressure levels, you will find yourself knee-deep in self-help speak to keep yourself from having what would be clinically classified as "a conniption". Phrases like, "serenity now" and "inner poise" and "you are Audrey Hepburn, damnit" will be uttered inside your head. You will weigh your time already invested in this line (aka "time served") plus however much longer you think it might take to complete versus chancing it by going to the other entrance and starting all over. You will remain committed to the Go Nowhere Line because, quite frankly, you are a dumbass. You will then see the other entrance's line cruise. You will begin to feel your eyes become wet. You will then witness a sub-line of persons in wheelchairs form, this one about 3 or 4 people deep; these folks requiring their own type of complicated, involved and yes, painfully slow screening. You will, of course, curse yourself repeatedly.
You will get the new aggro seat: I must first state that the airline itself was actually pretty cool; Song/Delta does a very funny song for its emergency instructions (this day was a Spanish theme, where the attendant played the "castanets" with the seat buckle). But as if Ponce de Leon, you will discover a new type of bad seat. Not the worst, but definitely Top 5 contender that will rival such Bad Seat Giants as: The Seat Next to the Bathroom, The Seat with the Kicking Kid, The Seat Near the Screaming Baby, The Seat Next to Gassy Guy, The Seat in the Last Row. I bring you: Seat In Front of the Card Shuffler! The woman behind me spent the entire flight (all 3 hours) shuffling cards on her tray which, as one would deduce, was attached to my seat. So for THREE HOURS, I got to hear AND feel "TAP-TAP-TAP,... Fl-i-i-i-i-IP!" As this was a flight to Palm Beach, well, let's just say the median age was somewhere around 65. Maybe you're a ballsier person than I am, but I have a hard time telling Grams to cram it. Seriously, Three. Hours. So glad we weren't headed to L.A.
You Will Get the Room You Didn't Ask For: I always book a non-smoking room. But what I got was a smoking room. The hotel was completely booked up, so I was stuck. I guess I could have tried to find another hotel, but it was late and ya know, suck it up, kid. Besides, I grew up around smokers; my parents smoke, my brother, one sister did until a few years ago. So I am not this prissy "my lungs? near smoke or its remnants!? NEVAH!" person (that is not to say I dig it either). But as soon as I opened the door, ....ew, gross, the stank. It was in the sheets, the comforter, the walls, and eventually, as if by magic!, my skin. What, do smokers use hotel rooms to chain smoke because it's now their last area of refuge? Cuz this is my new theory. To try to alleviate the stank, I didn't have any perfume or body spritz stuff, so I used the next best thing that I had at my disposal: Bed Head Hard Head Hairspray. I stood on my bed and sprayed everywhere. Unfortunately, Bed Head didn't help the bed any. And I didn't sleep. And the hotel didn't give a rat's ass - even when I complained the next morning.
Instead of HBO, You Will Get Showtime: Holy crap, am I the last to know about this series "The L Word"? I mean, okay, sure I've heard of it, but I hadn't heard-heard of it, if that makes any sense. What I saw?....well, .....what I saw....um, yeah, so like, um, yeah - who knew? To quote Forrest Gump, "And that's all I gotta say about that."
You Will Bonk an Alligator on the Head: The trip included a round of golf. It was fun even though my game was pure, unadulterated crap (I blamed this on the fact that I had to use club rentals instead of my own. I'm sure people bought this- right?). The thing they tell you about golfing in Florida? It's true. If you hit a ball in the water, even near the edge, consider it gone for there are these things called alligators who will eat you up and spit you out if given the chance. I hit one that went a okay distance.....but sliced right. Right into the water I was told. I never really saw it land because of a hill blocking my view, so when I went over to the area that it landed to check it out, there was this none too pleased baby alligator sitting there waiting for me. "AH!" said I. Maybe "baby" is understating it a bit. I hit a ...a toddler alligator...a still-rides-his-bike-with-training-wheels-alligator. Anyway, when I got there, he had that look of, "yeah, um...a word, madame?" like I had just woken him from a nap or whatever leisurely activity it is gators do. I, however, didn't stick around to have said word, my thought being that if there is a toddler alligator, then there's a Momma alligator not too far behind. With what I can ascertain from the film Happy Gilmore, my thought is she'd be pretty pissed I bonked her kid on the head.
But I'm home now. Happy to be home. In a bed lacking the sweet, sweet smell of Eau de Camels Non-Filtered.