The only way I was going to catch my flight yesterday was with a big net

It might have been my 3:45 am departure time.

It might have been my traveling on Christmas Eve.

It might have been my poor pairing of prosecco with ibuprofen. 

Whatever the case, yesterday proved that all the time I spent, laying awake, worrying about all the possible travel fiascos that might occur was not time wasted...it was more of a mental rehearsal for the inevitable.

Turns out (Hold onto your Santa hat) that Christmas Eve at an airport is not the ideal setting for people to be their best s"elves." 

As I am pretty occupied with just trying to keep my breathing and heart-rate at a manageable level in this environment while constantly tracking the closest exits, I am in a poor position to self-advocate. So, as I shuffled meekly along in the 45 minute TSA line, I was not prepared to deal with the airman who appeared to tell me that he would be getting in front of me because he needed to get to Sacramento. 

Imagine. Someone in line at an airport...needing to get somewhere.

I am furious with myself as I remember this.

I am a 4th grade teacher. I deal with the ramifications of budging on a daily basis. I take it VERY seriously. I am not the "We're all going to the same place and will get there at the same time" sort of educator. I am the "I paid thousands of dollars to go to Disney and have been waiting for hours in the Space Mountain line and heaven help the arrogant ass who thinks they can cut" sort of gal. Road rage begins with kids who budge in 4th grade. I'm on the front lines, y'all.

I stewed the entire time that I let this idiot take advantage of my vulnerability.

We finally made it to the security area...people being herded through narrow passageways. My tunnel vision made me balk as I was none-too-gently coaxed forward. "You can't have your sweater," the agent barked at me. I stared at him stupidly. "You have to go back." 

Back where?

I returned uncertainly to the conveyor belt. I didn't want to interrupt the flow of traffic. Clutching my sweater like Linus's blanket, I motioned to the agent there. "You'll have to go back." I looked "back." There wasn't even a clear end to the "back." A pilot, standing there with his plastic bin, snagged my sweater and put it in with his belongings. The agent wasn't happy as apparently we were breaking some sort of textile-related international law. The pilot waved me back to the body scanner as he continued to fight for the rights of my sweater.

Sweater-safely-in-hand, I made it to my gate and spotted Sacramento in line to board. Idiot. 

Buckled in, we waited to be cleared for take-off.

Huh.

Apparently, a warning light had alerted the pilot of an open hatch. I commiserated. I recently drove to Brockport with my trunk open.

The ONE mechanic scheduled to work at the airport on Christmas Eve morning finally arrived to slam the hatch shut for us.

Our hero.

Except he forgot to sign "The Book."

And had already left to close another open hatch on a plane parked on the opposite side of the airport. 

Thirty minutes to close the hatch.

Forty-five minutes for the mechanic to come back.

In the interim, many helpful suggestions were offered including forgery, taking the book TO the mechanic, up-dating "The Book" to a more modern electronic version, and stuffing "The Book" where the sun doesn't shine. I texted my friend Katriel that we would be putting a unit on cursive writing back into our curriculum. Apparently, not knowing how to pen your signature can shut down international travel. 

My window to make my connecting flight was shut before the plane even left the tarmac.

Oddly enough...I didn't care. I knew my daughters were already scurrying, re-routing my passage to them and that, by the time I landed in Detroit, a new flight would be waiting for me. I glanced over at Sacramento and tried to channel my Christian thoughts. Maybe he was worried about being late returning from leave.  I bet he had donated an organ to a stranger. Or maybe he had had to return home to care for his ailing mother. Although I'm sure his ailing mother would have been appalled that he had budged in line and neglected to say "please" or "thank you" in the process. Whatever-the-case, he wasn't going to make his flight either. Rarely do I smile on a plane.

I sat, serenely, as we landed, passengers breaking protocol to rush to the front. Someone in the middle of the plane yelled, "This is anarchy," and I laughed. No need to rush...sooner or later, I would be in Austin. It was just a matter of when.

There are worse places to be than in the Detroit airport for a six hour layover on Christmas Eve.

Right?

I was on sensory overload.

Noises...everywhere.

There is no discernible flow to the pedestrian traffic so I felt like a claustrophobic salmon, fighting my way up-stream. 

"Go buy some Tylenol," my family kept saying as I would find a little hide-y-hole, only to be chased out by people with no regard for space bubbles. There are TWENTY empty chairs. Why on earth would someone sit RIGHT NEXT TO ME? 

The stores I bravely ventured into were self-check-out and only accepted cards.

Naturally, I ran away.

I curled up in another little hide-y-hole and nibbled Twizzlers like a baby bunny nibbling blades of grass. Yup. Hello, family of five (including a cart-wheeler). Please, sit down in an area with FIFTY empty seats, DIRECTLY across from me. 

I found a human who would sell me Advil.

I decided to "buy" a secluded seat by going into a restaurant. I paid nine dollars for tomato bisque which turned out to be canned tomato soup with a ribbon of milk poured on top. I felt all the eyes of the restaurant scrutinizing me as I scrunched over the bowl like Quasimodo. I ordered a mimosa so that I would look like a confident, sophisticated traveler. I adjusted my posture...ramrod straight. I daintily scooped my spoon outward in the soup bowl, away from me...half-full...lifting it with feather-like finesse to my lips. My napkin, placed properly in my lap, was then used to gently blot the edges of my mouth. "How is everything?" the waitress asked, clearly judging me. "Delightful," I answered. 

But it was NOT delightful. I wanted a hide-y-hole.

I paid for my nine dollar soup and my fourteen dollar mimosa (after taking my two six dollar Advil tablets) and tried to casually exit the restaurant like a normal person. I felt like a fraud.

Detroit does sport a cute (and totally unnecessary) monorail system. They have underground tunnel access points (blaring music and with a choreographed light show--I had to practically soldier-crawl through), shuttle buses, and moving walk-ways every fifteen feet. But hey! Let's stuff a monorail in there too.

Turns out that an over-stimulated, on-the-brink-of-a-nervous-break-down, about-to-have-an-episode Amy Mosiman THRIVES in a mostly-empty, blissfully-quiet, monorail-to-nowhere. 

After thirty minutes of pretending I was at Disney, I decided to look for another hide-y-hole. The exertions of the day were making me sleepy-tired  ("Are you sure it wasn't the mimosa?" Douglas asked later). I settled into another unoccupied area with a ka-zillion empty seats and drifted off, only to be jarred awake by the man who suddenly appeared at my elbow and put his phone on blast to Youtube.

I scurried away.

Remembering a fountain that I had passed hours ago, I re-traced my steps to this peaceful water source.

Settling into a nearby chair, I watched as a burst of water exploded out of an embedded nozzle, arcing over the flat surface of the fountain, separating into droplets before falling into its designated chamber. This choreographed water fireworks show hypnotized me and I felt myself being lulled to sleep. I carefully slid my leg through the arm strap of my trusty backpack as a deterrent to would-be robbers (because who wouldn't want to steal a backpack full of loose and lint-y Twizzers that had exploded from its packaging when I surreptitiously tried to remove just ONE during the flight to Detroit?) and slumbered peacefully...like a princess (or an inebriated hobo).

I awoke, refreshed (and sober). 

Those six hours had FLOWN by!

I boarded my flight with guarded optimism. 

A TV!

An empty row!

I brushed off some lint-y Twizzlers and settled in for the roomy ride!

My in-flight movie couldn't hold a candle to the sight outside of my little window. 

The sun was setting on my Christmas Eve adventure, blanketing the clouds beneath me in a soft, ethereal glow. I was almost to my daughters...having battled bad manners, capitalistic congestion, wide-spread societal narcissism and my own inept inner demons to reach them.

We're all on a journey, yes?

Your journey may take you to your living room...across town...or across the county. 

But while you are on your journey...please, remember that you are not alone. 

Smile, if you can. Be polite. Be patient. Be forgiving. Throw a little extra in the tip jar. Make room in your plastic bin for someone's sweater. 

And don't budge.

If you can't help...then get out of the way (and go sit on the monorail...it's quiet there).

Just try to stay on track, the best you can, without derailing those around you.