"I am a strong, capable woman," I muttered as Brad attempted to gently extricate himself from my death-grip farewell embrace as he (tried to) drop me off at the airport, for this, my first transcontinental solo flight across the nation. "People manage to fly by themselves every day," I murmured as I watched his speeding van disappear into the horizon before bravely grasping the handle of my suitcase full of frozen meat products, horseradish, and two butter lambs into the building. Kiosk. Check. Security. Check. Located the gate listed on my ticket. Check. Whew! I breathed a sigh of relief. This was nothing. What was I so worried about?
I settled in with my good friend, Neil Patrick Harris, having happily spotted him in my grocery store's bargain book bin. He'd coyly penned his autobiography in a "choose-your-own-adventure" format which obviously caught on quick with genre enthusiasts and people in the market for lean ground beef. With a quick mental apology to Neil, I ripped the jacket leaf off so passers-by might be more inclined to think I was reading Dickens. Some chapters were pretty close to hitting that mark. Or in Neil's case...David.
So there we were, Neil and I, resolutely chained to gate A9, diligently checking the changing times of my departure as they came texted to my phone. A "seasoned" traveler, I also took careful note of the entertaining airport TV listings. Imagine my shock when I suddenly heard my name on the PA system. "Passenger Mosiman, please report to Gate A6 for boarding. Passenger Mosiman." Oh no! I haven't even left my own airport yet! I waved my ticket to the boarding agent, "I'm so sorry. It says A9 right here." He dismissed my apology by telling me to run. I skittered down the gangplank (Wait...is that for a pirate ship), limbo-ed gracefully under the attendant demonstration on how to fasten the seat-belt to his already responsibly-seated passengers and collapsed, filled with shame, in my seat.
Neil tried to distract me by complimenting my discovery of not one but TWO hidden pages in his book but it wasn't enough to NOT make me dread our arrival in Philly. If I couldn't properly board an airplane in my own airport, what hope did I have of EVER making it to San Diego? I would never see my daughters (or a koala) again.
As we prepared to exit the plane, I offered a small smile to a cute elderly couple wearing matching red sweaters who were seated across the aisle from me. They, apparently, were unimpressed by my theatrical late appearance and chose to ignore me. Listening carefully (one of my BEST traits...ask Brad), I discovered that I would...gasp...have to take a shuttle to either Concourse A or B for my connecting flight. Oh no. With shoulders squared, I marched off with absolutely no idea where I was going. Turns out that the matching red sweaters of my elderly couple friends were right in front of me so I decided to follow them. You have to really know what you're doing in life to pull off matching red sweaters at an airport. We boarded a shuttle...they were, of course, delighted to see I was still with them...and we drove off into the seedy underbelly of the Philadelphia airport. Straining to hear (listening IS among my best qualities), I overheard them talking about San Diego! Yes! Confidence slightly restored, I relaxed a bit. The shuttle dropped us off and we paused, looking right toward Concourse A and left to Concourse B. I followed Red Leader One and Red Leader Two right until we arrived at the gate for SAN ANTONIO! Oh no!
With Neil tucked safely under my arm like a football, we raced back to Concourse B. I launched us onto the moving sidewalk where we made excellent time until I went to step off and stumbled about like a drunken sailor. But...we made it!
Safely boarded, I awaited the arrival of my fellow seat-mates with some trepidation. I had packed comfort-fitted, over-the-head earphones for optimal movie viewing. "They're florescent pink," Brad observed as I packed them. I smile broadly. "I know...right?!?" Looking back upon that conversation, I worried that my new friends might not like my headphones. Would I be the laughing stock of the plane? The three-year-old headed my way did NOT looked thrilled to discover I was her seatmate. I waited for her to notice my headphones so casually wrapped around my neck but she pointedly ignored me. She daintily nibbled the yummy snack that her mom handed her without offering me even a single bite. B!t<]!
I was devastated to learn that the plane didn't have little TVs. Now I just looked ridiculous! I covered by putting the end of the headphone wire in my sweatshirt pocket to look like it was attached to some sort of musical amplification device. I bobbed my head along to an invisible beat. There. Now I didn't look ridiculous.
I watched the snack cart's slow arrival with great excitement. I noticed root-beer among the many beverage choices and fought the impulse to clap my hands. I didn't want my seatmate to judge me. Before I could place my order, however, I was handed a prepackaged biscotti. You know, the kind that tastes absolutely DREADFUL any where else but is the best cookie in the world when you are eating it on a plane? Yeah. Well...I admit. It threw me. This was a fancy cookie. For, like kings and ambassadors and Dame Judi Dench. I don't think root-beer goes with biscotti. I panicked. "Orange juice," I squeaked. This trip COULD NOT be going worse.
I tried to ignore my leg cramps. I tried to ignore the hunk of dry cookie wedged in my throat. I tried to ignore the time change...I glanced at the little she-devil laying between her mom and me. Her angelic head, encased in a critter-themed travel pillow with a sleepy time mask over her eyes, was nestled on her mother's lap. Somehow...I was assigned the feet. I should turn off my overhead light, I thought with guilt. I glanced at my watch. It was past 11. But in West Coast reality, it was a warped 8 pm. I could still hang out with Neil a bit longer...couldn't I? Sighing. I turned off the light. I soon discovered my seatmate suffered from both restless leg syndrome AND night terrors. My seatmate wasn't some precious three-year-old girl...it was a kicking Clydesdale indent on battering and bruising my ribs all the way from Philadelphia to San Diego.
And then...finally...I was there. I did it! No...WE did it. Thanks Neil Patrick Harris for believing in me. That I AM a strong, confident woman sort of capable enough to reach the right gate, to eventually locate the correct concourse, and order her desired beverage without fear of judgment. Well...one out of three's not so bad. Kungaloosh! (Read the book...then you'll get it)
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