making the most

i was talking to aaron when my plane left the gate. i waved a polite little "good-bye" to my fellow minneapolis-bound travelers. they would make it. my fate wasn't as certain.

2.4 minutes earlier, a chuckling ticket agent had reserved my place on the standby list for the next flight from CLE to MSP. not yet knowing what kind of wait i had in front of me, i'd hesitantly approached him with, "hi, may i ask you a question or is this a bad time?" he'd been following the dilbert principle of shuffling papers to look busy.

i thought that was a witty entrance, until i realized his real reason for chuckling was my next question: "what time does that flight leave?" suddenly i was waiting four hours for a two-hour flight.

"it's scheduled for gate D11," he said from behind the podium at gate C1, which is further from gate D11 than you might think. when you find yourself running from D12 to C1 with only minutes to spare for a flight you're doomed to never set foot on, you pass gates C5, C4, C3 and C2 but have to go thru practically a shopping mall to get to C1. it's disheartening, but i nearly bought a $10 pashmina. "you can take your time … and there's always a chance they'll change the gate, so you'll want to check the boards."

last spring i took a crash course in not panicking when confronted with circumstances that are beyond my control. i wish i could say i graduated unscathed, but it didn't exactly work that way. like alicia says, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. well, she sort of says that. but not directly.

the agent and i shared a final laugh as i turned to wave at the departing flight and break the bad news to aaron. he'd managed his own stealthy miracle by sneaking on an aircraft and hiding behind a seat ... i'm not one to accuse, but i'm pretty sure threats were made about other people's jobs. he would certainly land before i left the ground. "i hope you have a book." i had two.

when i was sure flight 2194 wasn't going to come back to exchange a drunken troublemaker, stowaway criminal, or whiny executive for me, i turned to face the bright, bustling abyss of concourse C. my spirits were immediately lifted when a grumpy "sky cab" tried to run down a group of milling teenagers. like, OMG ... chill, dude.

what to do? i knew exactly where i was, but i felt lost. i knew my mission was simply to wait, but i felt purposeless ... probably like most people who hang out in airports.

not thirty minutes ago, a speed walk with luggage had gotten me from D to C in 12 minutes. i needed to stretch that to 240, so i took a seat at C8 to strategize. it didn't take me long to develop, detect and diagnose a mental illness i immediately named Peron Paranoia. it's the defensiveness you exhibit when you're loitering in an airport and catch the eye of random travelers (who have a purpose) and whose gaze you assume is pity.

you know, "don't cry for me argentina." the rest of that goes, "and don't look at me like that." picking up your bags? follow the signs. heading for a connection? do i look like a monitor? maybe i did. my sweater had a couple stripes on it. i guess text might eventually scroll through them.

just then, i knew what i needed to do. i needed to get in the way. how often have you been on your way to a gate when you encounter the guy who thinks he's at the mall? or the other guy who's standing so close to the departure/arrival screens that no one can see anything? or the woman who doesn't seem to understand "walk left, stand right?"

apparently i had a lot of airport aggression to release. i didn't go so far as to stand left, but i was ignorant enough to set my bag down beside me. i admired rock and roll capital souvenirs from a three-foot distance, making it uncomfortable for people to pass me on the right. so they didn't.

i strolled. i gawked. i turned to see what was going on behind me. i took my time reading the pizza hut express menu when it was my turn. sure, i already had a pizza in-hand, but i still needed to choose a beverage ... and then get napkins.

i stopped. a lot. to take my coat off. to put it back on. to balance it atop my bag and discover that it was too bulky to wrap the handles around. i sat in the polite seat, which people leave between themselves and other travelers, and stayed long enough to scribble something in my notebook, make a phone call, or hear the initial boarding call.

i considered going down the slide with the seven-year-olds and striking up a conversation with the jewish guy who was clearly a wanderer like myself ... but i didn't have time for airport prison, and that guy was clearly unstable.

i stayed in cleveland long enough to see not only the scattered showers of late afternoon, but also the dry pavement of early evening. around 7:30 p.m., another passenger who'd been booted to the later flight greeted me at D11, and i momentarily wondered how he'd passed the time. probably where it would have gone faster: the sports bar immediately across from the gate. but my way was more fun.

sitting in a confirmed seat and tired from my escapades, i dialed aaron to tell him the good news.

"hurry!" he said from my expected arrival gate.

"i’m going as fast as i can."

a bruise and tight jeans

as the the temporary scarring and the memory of the trauma fade, i'm regaining trust in my slippers and i'm carrying my cell phone with me at [almost] all times.
a few weeks ago, i was surprised to discover that my house has so many stairs. tho i'd only gone careening down six or seven of them, it felt more like 45 or 50. i also discovered that at the precise moment i found myself in more physical danger than i had in nearly 30 years, there wasn't a light of any kind, there were no happy memory flashbacks, nor was there a mental slideshow of my loved ones. there was darkness and i remember thinking, "how many fucking steps can there possibly be?"

and they're all wooden. the majority of the house is carpeted while the minority is made up of the kitchen, bathrooms, and, yes, staircase. even the landing (no pun intended) is naught but a square of linoleum. the house was built in '91, so that part makes sense.

at the journey's end, i decided to rest. i took five minutes to determine whether i was alive or dead, and the next five to speculate about whether i was ever going to walk again. then the phone rang, but i let it go to voicemail. i was sure i'd never walk again and, therefore, in no big hurry. i wouldn't know the full extent of my injuries until two days later when i realized i was bruised from my ankle to my elbow.

after the 10 minutes of assessing and cussing, i miraculously stood and walked in a small circle. testing. then i looked to the top of the staircase where zoey stood, barely wagging her tail. she typically associates loud noises and lots of swearing with something she's done wrong. however, i only had myself to blame ... and my aptly named slippers.

the good news is that most of the shattered glass stayed where it landed, choosing not to follow me ... and if you're looking to purchase tableware that can be thrown down flights of stairs, i recommend corel. yard sale corel if at all possible.

oh, don't worry about me. it was hard to walk and lay down, sit, and stand back up and get in and out of the car for about a week, and the bruise rainbow was particularly spectacular, but all is back to normal. not only can i walk, but i can also rest my elbow on a pillow without the shooting pain. there are a dozen stairs and now i count them every time.

many thanks to alicia for scaring me into taking aspirin whether i thought i needed it or not ... the fall may not have killed me but the clot certainly could have.