As time went on, the opportunities and flight destinations gradually trickled to a stop. Until this weekend it had been two YEARS since I'd set foot on a metal bird. {Though not for lack of trying - I've planned several unsuccessful trips to San Francisco and even turned up at the airport for a weekend trip to Huntsville. I left the Columbus Airport in a blaze of righteous anger after my flight was pushed back three times in an hour.} So it was with mounting trepidation and a minimal amount of excitement that I arrived {an hour and a half early} to the Southwest terminal to head to Spartanburg, SC for a Pure Barre training.
My boarding passes pre-printed and my carry on bag packed with travel-safe toiletries and lululemon attire, I flashed my ID at the disinterested TSA officer and joined the throng searching for departure gates... immediately finding my plane to be delayed. My already jangled nerves took another hit {I'd already been close to tears while dropping off Jolene at the kennel and had strong armed my mother into confirming that "whatever happened to me, she would get to Jolene immediately in case of emergency"}. This wasn't the great return to the friendly skies that I'd imagined...
Several hours, two boardings, three packs of peanuts, one bumpy landing, and 10 chapters of a library book later, I made it to Spartanburg's airport. Or at least, that's what the sign said. I quizzically checked out the extensive renovations occurring throughout the large rectangular room that boasted an "international airport". Chalking up my bad attitude to fatigue and mild motion sickness, I quickly found my town car and set up an internal tally - two take-off/landings down, two more to go! Little did I know that my desire to "fly away home" was about to hit major turbulence.
Post training, I returned to the "little airport that could" and posted up next to the "healthy foods" kiosk {which coincidentally boasted a meager smattering of KIND bars, dried fruit, and diet drinks}. My flight was already delayed and I'd already called my mother to rail on the lack of civilized dining options at the airport. Upon leaving, I was elated and thought that my time in "holding patterns" was over. Then I landed in Baltimore and the real fun began. {I really can't make this stuff up}.
Upon my arrival to Baltimore {crab cakes and football - that's what Maryland does! - sorry, random movie quote}, the death blow was dealt. My flight, scheduled to leave in 2 hours at 10pm, had been pushed back to 1 in the morning. In record time, I experienced the 12 stages of grief... I shouldered my bag, now a little heavier, and made my way to the food court. From my past days as a frequent flyer, I vaguely remembered a Jamba Juice stationed in the center of a concourse. My spirits lifted at the thought of a frozen, fruity concoction.
And there was a Jamba Juice {cue "Chariots of Fire" as I slow motion run towards the register}... only the night got even better, as I noticed a line of disgruntled customers begin to harangue the cashier. Apparently, the less than stellar staff of Jamba Juice had either mishandled the computer system or couldn't work the super blenders. "Tirty minute wait", the cashier screeched in broken English as two young women with brightly colored talons and heavy gold hoops lounged against the counter in Jamba Juice visors. I may have had four hours, but I sure as hell wasn't spending them waiting for this Rihanna video to wrap!
My will was breaking and the idea to rent a car was starting to sound pretty appealing. I grudgingly bought another book, contemplated a Baltimore Ravens sweatshirt to stay warm {at least I am fascinated by Ray Lewis?}, and tried to stay reasonably healthy with a Chipotle burrito bowl. I hunkered down in the airport equivalent to a La-z-boy and {unsuccessfully} fought the urge to purchase an Auntie Anne's pretzel {survival mode and carb loading had set in}.
I rotated reading and riffling through iPhone photos of my dog as the hours passed until mercifully, an angel named Chuck announced the arrival of flight 476, service to Columbus. While my fellow passengers emitted shouts of joy and a couple wolf whistles, I gritted my teeth for another take-off. As I called my mother and husband to announce the final leg of the journey from Hell, I hissed my intent to NEVER fly again unless heavily medicated. And yet, the story still wasn't over. I took my seat and {ashamedly} almost burst into tears when several questionable individuals boarded without carry-ons or reading material { I took this a sure sign of terroristic intent}. An hour later, passing in and out of a sleep stupor, I said a prayer of thanks as we FINALLY took off!
My way too eventful trip finished rather quietly. Aside from getting momentarily confused as to where I'd parked my car, I made it home quickly and I gratefully crawled into bed at 3pm. For now, I can safely say that the only "flight" I want to see is one of wine samples. Cheers to keeping my feet on the ground for awhile.
XO,
