I am traveling.
Preparing to travel alone is the reason I haven’t written this week. I spent half the week catching up on family laundry and the other half of the week cursing myself that the kids don’t do their own laundry.
Now I’m making a plan.
Which means nothing will change except the volume of the voices inside my head.
I used to travel by myself a lot. I don’t mean the fancy kind of travel, where you go see exotic cities and book sightseeing tours. I mean the kind of travel where you get picked up in Dayton, OH and stay with a friend and eat out a couple of times. I did fly alone to Seattle once and go backpacking with a friend more insane than I am. And that trip would make QUITE a blog. But that blog would eliminate all chances that I’d ever be allowed outside Hillsborough county again. I can’t risk that. Sorry.
What happens on Poo Poo Point, stays on Poo Poo Point. That’s a real place. Look it up.
During the days of flying to normal places and seeing normal people, and even during the days of road-tripping to Texas with four small children by myself, I got pretty travel savvy. I figured a few things out. I figured out how to pre-board with babies slung to various body parts and how to break down a gate-check stroller with my toes. And I figured out how to safely get all four into a gas station bathroom during a quick stop somewhere in Mississippi. I figured out nothing related to Louisiana. Hate that place. Louisiana will always have the upper hand. Which is mostly why I hate it. That, and everything else.
Somewhere along the way, I lost the savvy. All of it. And since that time, I’ve been following Todd’s savvy around like a lost 3-legged puppy. But with this trip, I was determined to look like I knew what I was doing.
The flight was cheap, so the first thing I did was book Early Bird for myself. I mean, I can’t wait in line with all the other smelly passengers. And nothing says travel savvy like being already hunkered down in your front-of-the-plane seat when the Bs are walking on. So I booked Early Bird.
Except I didn’t.
And I can’t explain what happened, except to say that I’ve lost my edge.
So because I thought I had Early Bird check-in on Southwest, I didn’t bother to even see what my boarding number was until Wednesday night at midnight–a mere 12 hours before I flew and 12 hours AFTER all the non-early birders had checked in.
Sigh. I knew this meant that I would be getting on the plane after 132 people had already boarded. But you know, I decided I could play the game. I was going to wear C13 like a boss. When it was finally my turn to board, I was walking down the jetbridge behind C9, C10, and C11. They were a cute little family with mom, dad, and teen daughter. Teen daughter, C10, called over her shoulder to her dad, “Dad, I call window.”
Oh, sweetie. I wanted to say. You won’t even be sitting with C9 and C11. And you can forget the window, babydoll. We Cs don’t have these luxuries. I have no idea where they ended up sitting or if they managed to be together on the back of the plane. I couldn’t think about them once I rounded the corner. At that point, I had to go into full recon mode to locate my seat. Be strategic. Waste no time. The flight attendant was standing in the area before Row 1. There were seats open in the middle on both sides of the first row.
“How full is the flight?” I asked. I mean, I could see it was pretty full. But my question was, did these outstretched front rowers have a chance of staying in their chaise lounge without someone like me plopping down next to them.
“Completely booked,” he answered. So, no. No one would make it out alive. I started to veer left to sit down between two strangers and the flight attendant said, “You can’t have that with you,” pointing to my backpack. “There’s no place to store it under a seat. You can put it a few rows back in an overhead.” No way. You aren’t taking my backpack. It’s like a Mary Poppins purse. I wasn’t parting with it. So I allowed my front row dreams to die and kept moving. Row 2, no. Row 3, no. Looking for some skinny people. Row 4, no. Row 8, loud women talking. No women. No on the women. Row 7 had two dudes, one of them average build and one of them skinnier than my right leg. I scooted in and shoved my backpack under the seat in front of me.
I was feeling pretty good about my choice until I realized both men had claimed their armrests, which mean that my arms would be glued to my side in an almost concave fashion. And the guy to my left had his legs splayed like criss-cross applesauce. So I got to touch his elbow and his knee the entire flight. I was also thinking one of them smelled until I began to wonder if it was me.
It wasn’t me.
When I arrived, after a shorter flight than I anticipated, I found my way to the rental car counter and pulled up my confirmation number. I had rented an Economy Car. I was hoping for a bright green Chevy Spark, but ended up with a white Ford Fiesta. I’ll have to describe the fiesta sometime. The rental went fine and I headed out the sliding doors on the rather lengthy route to the car itself, in Hertz space 444. It was a long walk. Halfway there, not yet to the escalators, I was watching the guy in front of me maneuvering with all of his luggage. Poor guy. Look at all the luggage. Compared to him, I was agile. I felt free and easy. Until it hit me that the reason I was having a much easier time walking was because I had left my luggage sitting at the Hertz counter.
They don’t not call me savvy for nothing.
The woman was surprised to see me back, but was already helping another customer. I just awkwardly mouthed the word “luggage” and grabbed it out from its spot next to the new customer’s knees. No one had stolen my bag. If they had known there was a brand new pair of Vans in it, I bet they would have.
My goal for the rest of the weekend is to book a sightseeing tour of Glasgow, Kentucky, spend a little time in Hobby Lobby, and hang out with cherished friends.
And if you are looking for me, I’ll be zipping around in a Ford Fiesta, wearing a brand new pair of Vans.
Ain’t nothing middle aged about THAT.