I thought I was in shape but that was just an obstacle illusion

I do NOT wake up like a little ray of sunshine.

My husband, well-accustomed to my morning grouchies, sensed there was more to my mood this particular morning than just having to leave my warm blankies and face an unfriendly-to-Amy world. By "unfriendly," I mean, of course, people talking to me and expecting me to respond. Oh. And lights. Harsh, blinding fluorescent lighting more suitable for criminal interrogation than the gentle, beckoning beam necessary to re-emerge into society. 

"The elementary has an event tonight," I mumbled, still face-down in my pillow, attempting to self-smother. 

My cousin Sami would later scoff at my complaints. She had somehow gotten shanghaied into the Senior Sleep-Over. Seniors suctioned to their phones versus the five-to-nine-year-old crowd...screaming through the gym, ricocheting off rubber walls, war-paint of leopards, bats, and sparkly unicorns emblazoned on their faces? Apples and oranges, baby. Apples and oranges.

My friends and I ducked out quick as soon as the school day was over to grab dinner. As we were walking into the restaurant, I glanced at my watch and groaned. "Only five more hours to go."

But...

as my husband knew...

and Sami knew...

and my friends knew...

...the minute the event began, like a light switch going on, my energy level surged and my delight knew no bounds as I bounced happily from one familiar face to another. "Meg!" "Brittany!" "Tristan!" "Geri!" "Brenda (Take a note!)!"  

My job was relatively easy:  Make sure that both the bounce-house and inflatable obstacle course were suitably manned while encouraging, coaching, and safe-guarding the climbing wall. My friend, Allison, well-versed in the verbiage of 2025, was on-hand to guide my unintended slip-ups as a blonde mane and light-up shoes flitted effortlessly up the wall. "You go, girl!" I cheered. "Amy, that was a boy." Devastated by my mistake, I switched to safer labels. "Go, Tan Trousers!" I yelled, confusing the climbing child to the point where he tumbled backwards off the ladder. I then just stuck with "You." "You go! You!" to the point where it felt like the needle on my vinyl 45 record of the alphabet song got stuck on the final vowel. I am going to suggest name tags next year. 

7:55.

I had almost made it.

Unlike my friend Katriel, who had been spirited away from her chosen location at the book fair to go paint faces ("I didn't know you knew how to paint faces," I marveled to her later. "I don't," she answered.), my evening was pretty routine and undramatic for such a high-energy event.

Families were slowly filing out and, around the perimeter of the gym, games were being broken down and packed up. 

Suddenly, out of no where, like the proverbial bad penny, Tyler arrived with his usual misguided ideas.

Herding our friend Erin and me toward the entrance of the obstacle course, Tyler was all non-stop commentary about how fun it would be for people to see Erin and me race...how great it would be for morale, connection, community...blah, blah, blah. 

No. Terrible idea. As my 4th graders will tell you: Mrs. Mosiman does not bounce...she breaks.

And let's be real here. This was not some noble aspiration of Tyler's. This was pure retaliation. For what? I cannot tell you. Noticing his lackluster cellphone case back in January, Erin and I seized upon the opportunity to thoughtfully provide him a custom-made protective case for his birthday. Could this sweet gesture of friendship have been the catalyst for the grievous injury that I am about to share? Only you can decide that, dearest reader. 

Against our better judgment...guilted into this situation by our people-pleasing personalities...Erin and I reluctantly readied ourselves to race...

When suddenly...fate intervened.

"Stop! We unplugged the obstacle course."

Our friend, Rachel rescued us. Relieved, Erin and I bent to retrieve our shoes...

When another voice boomed, "No worries! I plugged it back in!"

Apparently, that was the equivalent of a starting pistol because Erin dove for the rabbit hole entrance. Shocked, I stood statue-still before scrambling after her.

We wiggled, worm-like, through taut tunnels intended for toddlers. Unbalanced, we wove our way through a forest of wobbly punching bags, squeezing ourselves like homemade pasta through tight rollers, and then dove out another hole to the welcoming air bag mattress below.

With the delay (from Erin's cheating), I was able to hear but not process her shriek of pain before I had already Superman-ed out of the tunnel. The deflated air mattress that waited for my free-fall had me scrambling, like a cartoon character, to pull back on the throttle but gravity had other plans. In the distance, I could hear someone redundantly say, "There's no air," but, after my not-so-feather-soft landing, I wondered if the voice was referring to the air mattress or my lungs. The only words I could get out were "Ouch," "My elbow," and "You cheated." Erin's vocabulary was limited to "My neck." Stunned, Tyler was also rendered almost speechless. The only thing I heard him say before he disappeared was "That's a wrap."

Following the rules? It was worth a shot

I am not a voracious drinker but when I do find myself at an appropriate social event that includes sensible spirits, my go-to tends to be tequila. 

My recent excursion to Mexico was seeped in mezcal. Immediately upon arrival, Sydney and I quickly became students in the making, acquisition, discernment, and consumption of tequila. We were horrified to discover that we were abysmally behind in our studies and would require remedial intervention. 

Dessert tequila? What is this?

Throwing back shots in every gift shop you enter is a GOOD idea?

Accompanying a young teenager to a tequila tasting is NOT illegal?

When you are in Mexico, everything a young American girl learns about tequila is swiftly tossed out the window of an unregistered shuttle van that speeds with abandon down a crowded city street, taking no heed of the occasionally posted signs to "alto." We knew we were in treble when we walked in (to that first gift shop). 

Rule #1:  Don't drink with strangers. 

The loophole for this is to call everyone amigas or familia.

Rule #2:  Drinking occurs in restaurant establishments, bars, or people's homes.

Apparently, the entire country of Mexico is a drinking-approved zone. 

Sydney and I were in Cabo less than 24 hours and we were drinking with strangers in the back of a gift shop. Brad Mosiman was on the phone with the American consulate but we were already on our way to our second tequila tasting. Tracking our movement on Google Maps was more like tracking the little ball on Pong. 

Rule #3: Drinking tequila requires a lot of accessories and dramatic facial emoting.

Taking a traditional tequila shot should be very simple and straight-forward. Shouting "Woo!" is unnecessary and embarrassing. 

Sydney and I were tactfully guided in the correct technique of drinking tequila. Let's just say my Lamaze training really came in handy. What a useful (and applicable) skill! 

Rule #4:  All tequila is basically the same.

WHAT WERE WE THINKING?!?!?

"Wait. There's dessert tequila?!?!"

Along with our new friend Trudi from Detroit and her 14-year-old son, TJ, Sydney and I were wrestled into yet another back room in Mexico. Meanwhile, Brad Mosiman was going Liam-Neeson back home, ready to employ his particular set of skills to extract his family from danger. Unfortunately, his family had decided to become bffs with danger. Maybe Brad Mosiman would have better luck extracting Trudi and TJ. Okay. NOT Trudi. But TJ was BEGGING to get out of there.

Speaking of extraction, once Sydney and I were confident of our ability to extract tequila from the blue agave plant, we moved onto practicing our newly-developed tequila-tasting strategy. Imagine the counter at the bar as a fence-line of bottles set up as targets for the seasoned gunslinger. Sydney and I slowly but methodically worked our way down the picket-wire.

As impressed as TJ must have been by our skill and accuracy (it was hard to tell...he heroically refrained
from "Woo!"-ing as recommended by our visiting country's customs), he was relieved when we transitioned to the restaurant section so he could enjoy his chicken tenders. Sydney, Trudi, and I were uncharacteristically boisterous. The surrounding patrons and passing staff delighted in our animated conversation and loud laughter. TJ, for some reason, did not seem to want to join in our revelry. 

As our afternoon concluded, our server encouraged us to capture this memory at their photo station. 

Who wouldn't want to do THAT?!? (TJ)

Giggling, Sydney, Trudi, and I raced over, vying for a position next to the statue of a resting vaquero. Caught up in the moment and forgetting that I was in the presence of an impressionable young person, I, to the approval of restaurant guests, moved to dramatically straddle the statue (in the most lady-like way possible)...fortunately, good sense and bad balance prevailed.

Click!

Our memory was made.

Treasured...for some. Trauma...for one.

We said a fond farewell to our new friends. Frustrated that I wasn't able to elicit even a smidgen of a smile from TJ, I tried once more. "Hope you didn't have too terrible of a time," I said to the reticent teen, "It's just how we roll." Sydney laughed. "Mom...you got it wrong." She winked at TJ. "It's how I roll." TJ grinned at her, saluting us by tipping those beautiful browns up to the sky. 

He was going to miss us.

Comparing my enjoyment of a resort foam party to a soap bubble: One p^!(k and it's gone

 As Sydney and I researched the different resorts in Cabo, we considered safety, location, cost, and amenities. The package we ultimately decided on promoted "remote-hopping" to its neighboring properties. I was excited about this because one of the resorts advertised "foam parties" which sounded like delightful fun. I love bubbles!

Little did I know, that while I was batting soap bubbles in the air like a curious kitten playing with a ball of yarn, other people were also batting balls...beneath the foamy surface of the pool.

Who knows what terrors lurk beneath the water?

Jaws made me not want to enter the ocean. Human debauchery made me not want to enter the pool at a foam party.

Don't get me wrong. The pulsating music was great. The drinks were delicious. The energy was insane. I squealed with childlike joy as foam bubbles cascaded down from the steel pavilion bars above us. Sydney and I danced happily in the knee-high water. We had impulsively positive interactions with party-goers. Standing in line for drinks, I was indecisive until I spotted the girl ahead of us receive a beautiful purple drink. She turned to exit and I shouted to her, over the thump of the music, asking her what it was.

Without hesitation, she handed it to me to try. Having tracked the drink through the construction process to her hand, I took and tasted it, also without hesitation. 

I also appreciated the cleanliness and safety of the facility as staff members were in a constant flurry of discrete movement, cleaning and drying the floors...circling the area endlessly, on the hunt for discarded or unattended cups. Lifeguards were on alert vigil.

It took me awhile to realize that there was a mathematical equation to the event. Frenzied dancers on platforms. Foam. Drinks. Hypnotic music. Super-fun. 

But slowly, like the unsuspecting frog in the warming pot of water, things began to amp up. They kept adding more and more...

Super-soakers filled with alcohol first.

Then, giant bottles of champagne were carried out and shaken on stage as the occupants of the pool roared their approval. Braver than me, Sydney faced the onslaught while I, like Lot fleeing from Sodom, turned, refusing to look back until...

"My eye!" Sydney cried out, "My eye!" Blinded, with out-stretched arms, Sydney groped for me in the over-populated pool. I grabbed my daughter, tugging her to safety until her vision cleared.

It was then that my eyes were opened as well.

When the foam wasn't flowing, Sydney and I avoided the bulk of the crowd, hugging the edge of the pool. While we were there, I noticed that one half of the couple that had been stationed next to us had disappeared beneath the bubbles. Alarmed, I scanned the surface, waiting for her to reappear. Her male companion did not seem upset about this situation. Frightened, my eyes sought out a lifeguard. To my relief, he was already headed towards us. A quick blast on his whistle and a casually disgusted "up" gesture of his hand resulted in my drowning victim's immediate reappearance. Her friend stood to adjust himself ...making something else disappear as well. 

Apparently, this magic trick was catchy because, with a wave of that wand, Sydney and I (clutching my pearls) also disappeared from the pool.

We sought refuge on the upper-deck seating platforms, watching the party continue to ramp up with the addition of balloons and then giant inflatable balls.

You know what I'm going to say.

Yup. You guessed it.

Those were not the only balls we could see from our vantage point. 

I was in the wrong place.

The math here had gotten too complex.

It's easy to see how numbers can get away from you. 

I loved the bubbles. The music and dancing. Laughing with my daughter. It's just that my math is VERY simple. For me, this party didn't add up. When it really started hopping, I lost my algorithm. It was time to go.

I just thought I would be spending the afternoon, hanging out at the pool. I didn't realize everyone would be hanging out at the pool.

I was in over my head. I ended up leaving the bubble party feeling a bit deflated. Apparently, I just wasn't able to rise to the occasion.

My camel cried (with relief) when I left: She let out a humpback-wail

 "You're doing WHAT when you go to Mexico?" my husband asked.

"What are you doing when you go to Cabo?" asked Savannah.

You know who didn't question me? You know who didn't scoff? You know who didn't demean my dream?

Sydney. That's who. WITHOUT question, she simply booked the excursion while I spent a month defending my choice.

"Camels are not indigenous to Mexico," Savannah (now a naturalist, apparently) pointed out.

"How exactly are you planning on getting on and off said camel?" Brad wondered, trying to plant a seed
a doubt in my mind, "You have trouble getting out of bed in the morning."

But I'd read the literature. Watched the informational video. Discovered and then latched onto a Bucket List activity that I'd never even ONCE in my life considered but was now going to accomplish. I, Amy Mosiman, was going to spot whales while perched majestically atop a stately ship of the desert.

Brad and Savannah laughed their heads off.

When Sydney and I arrived at our resort, I admit to feeling that I might have fallen for the hype. I might have been a bit naive.

Naive? Me?

We'd unintentionally but happily landed in Cabo at the height of whale season. Unfortunately, we soon learned that any whale sightings that we might have indulged in occurred at sunrise before the arrival of the daily migrations of cruise ships anchoring in the Sea of Cortez that herds them down the shoreline. A 6:30 am whale wake-up call was NOT in the cards for Syd and me.

So, as we drove to our excursion, I tried to ready my heart for, as my more skeptical family members described it, "a low-rent, back-alley, camel carnival ride." 

I was worried.

I wasn't wearing closed-toed shoes. "They don't care about what's on your feet," my husband tried to assure me (too late there now, buddy), "They only care what's in your wallet." What if my camel didn't like me? What if, like my stunt airplane debacle, there was an undisclosed weight limit? And, of course, the same worry that plagued me throughout the entire trip...what if I'm sex-trafficked? 

These worries, etched in the sand by my own anxious hand, were quickly dispelled by the first warmly enthusiastic wave of our new friend, Pepe. "Mi familia!" he shouted, gathering us together like a mother hen and shoo-ing us out of the heat to a shadowed pavilion. As we eagerly waited for our fun photo-shoot with a Bactrian camel, Pepe entertained us with camel-related trivia. Sydney and I, raised in a rural county boasting more cows than people, were more than ready to apply our bovine knowledge to this new environment. Four-chambered stomachs? Please. Cloven hooves? Child's play. We didn't even blink when Pepe, asked about a camel's retirement, teased his familia by telling us we'd find out at lunch after our ride.

Our photo shoot was magical. Our camel, the lovely Lolita with eyelashes for miles, graciously accepted our admiration while we posed for pictures while the camel train was being assembled. I let out a sigh of relief when I spotted the staired-platform that would put me camel-high in order to straddle and then sit in the saddle. Many of our familia were allowed to pair up on their camels. As Sydney and I climbed the stairs, Pepe smiled broadly at me, clasping his hands. "Senorita! It would give me such pleasure if you would ride Pepe's favorite camel!" He yelled in Spanish to the compound and a young man quickly added a sturdy addition to the train. A quick review of Google translate revealed Pepe's shouted request: "Hey! We need a load-bearing camel out here!"

My hurt feelings were quickly out-weighed by the pain of my suddenly over-extended pelvis. I glanced back at Sydney, trotting along on her little dromedary named Natalie whose pronouns were nice/nasty. "Not gonna lie, I'm not sure my hips can handle this," I told her when, finally, to my great relief, they disengaged and I could settle comfortably in the saddle. I quickly fulfilled another Bucket List item by singing "Sally the Camel" while RIDING a camel. I was disappointed that others didn't join in. I'm sure they would regret that later. 

Weaving around cacti and nettles, we were soon at the beach. I heard Sydney gasp and looked back to see my daughter, atop a camel, arm outstretched,pointing...at an oasis? A middle eastern market? A band of desert raiders? 

No.

A whale.

I sat, periscope-straight, eyes locked on the Pacific. "Another one! Mom! Look!" Sydney bellowed. Our Wyoming County roots rose to the surface. So many whales...like counting cows in a field. The excursion photographer had quite a time with us. "Look at me!" he shouted again and again, "The whales will still be there!"

Too soon, we were back to the staired-platform and Pepe was watching me mentally work out my strategy for dismounting. He was ready. I swung my far leg over, planted both feet firmly on the platform, prayed that my load-bearing camel didn't sway, and pushed off his furry side. Pepe met me with a firm handshake, helping to hoist me up. Score! I waddled  off with dignity like a bow-legged, derriere-dragging duck.

"Mi familia!" Pepe shouted, ushering us over to the little open-aired pavilion that housed the restaurant and bar. He wowed us with his tamale-making skills and then conducted a tequila-tasting seminar. By this time, Sydney and I were well-versed on this process and did the Mosiman family name proud. 

We were, of course, heart-broken to say good-bye to Pepe and our camel friends. "Let's make this quick and not milk it out," I whispered to Sydney as we waited to hug Pepe as he helped us board the truck to take us back. "We don't want this to become a drama-dairy."

Out of my depth at the swim-up pool

It is awkward, at best, to dramatically storm away from a swim-up bar. To ride away upon one's high-horse when you must first slide off a slippery stool. Righteous indignation is not best communicated when you are clumsily dog-paddling away.

Sigh.

I admit to perhaps being, a bit, naive going into this situation. When Sydney and I booked an all-inclusive, adults-only resort, we just thought we wouldn't have to deal with kids crowding our hot tub. We didn't know that, for some, "adults-only" means something else entirely.

We just thought we were making new friends.

On our first encounter (We got MUCH smarter after this experience), we met childhood buddies from Texas and Oregon who had spent the previous day in the noble pursuit of game fishing. They made casual references to their wives as we enjoyed the weather and the water. I watched as our bartender battled bees from his buffet of limes while monitoring the tide lines of our beverages. 

Without warning, Oregon declared his disbelief in a deity.

I waded in.

Surreptitiously, I texted my stalwart Christian support group:

Amy to group:  Hypothetical question:  Is a swim-up bar the ideal place to evangelize? And...discuss.

Allison:  Anything can happen at the swim-up bar!

Marissa:  I believe it is a perfectly acceptable place because many non-Christians view Christians as people who aren't allowed to have any fun or as prudes.  But if you can get to their level while shining His light then BOOM. You've got a success in the making! This is doing exactly what Jesus would have done. He could have stayed on His throne, all mighty, but no, He came down and became a dirt-poor homeless person to relate to us.

Katriel:  Amazing! (Not helpful at all)

Amy to group:  Amy Mosiman (downing a shot of tequila) listening to a skeevy predator telling me he doesn't believe in God. Amy slams down her shot, winks, and slurs, "No worries, baby, He believes in you."

I was briefly considering the ludicrousness of the sprinkling versus immersion debate as I would, if given the opportunity, transform this resort swim-up bar into a baptism pool for one of the Lord's lost lambs.

Silly...simple...stupid me.

What a naive nincompoop. 

I failed to recognize the wolf in a sheep's bathing suit.

Seated next to me, with Texas on her other side, Sydney slightly shifted so I glanced down the bar to where I thought Dallas was regaling my daughter with pictures of Marlin on his phone. The bartender and I exchanged glances as we both realized that there was something really fishy about what Texas was sharing.

Sydney's plan to subtly and discreetly remove us from this torrid situation was thwarted by my abruptly standing and loudly announcing that it was time to go. The bartender hid his smile while Texas laughed uncomfortably (HE was uncomfortable? Please.) and whispered to Sydney, "I hope we didn't offend your mother." She muttered something about my aversion to bees and followed me away from the bar. 

There was no graceful way to make my dramatic exit. Sloughing through the just over-knee-high water looked like I was battling a snow drift. High-stepping had me looking like I was lost from my marching band. Any type of swim maneuver would be misconstrued by those two idiots:  Breast stroke...Freestyle...Back stroke...Dog paddle. If ever was a time for me to be able to walk on water...

My head held high, I made it to the stairs and dared a glance back to glare at the men who had infringed on our innocent good time...They, of course, were nonplussed. It was funny to them and they would just move onto their next poolside prey. I was grateful for the small salute from the bartender as we left and grateful, too, for the valuable lesson. When one approaches a swim-up bar (which we avoided for the remainder of the trip), one must arm herself with environmental-friendly armor. First, of course, wear your goggles of godliness. Strap on the fins of fidelity. Put on your swim suit of self-control and self-respect. Don't forget your hat of humor...because once you've gotten over your initial shock of the immature audacity of idiots, you just have to laugh.

I pulled a mussel laughing at the all-you-can-eat buffet

"Why aren't you blogging about your trip?" my husband asked, frowning at me. I shrugged. "There really wasn't all that much to write about," I admitted, "It was just a nice, ordinary vacation." Brad stared at me. He paused, taking a deep breath before addressing me. "I think," he said slowly, "that you have gotten in the mind-set of believing a story is not worth telling unless something humiliating, odd, or catastrophic occurs." 

I considered this.

"Cabo is a revolving destination door for thousands of people a day," I explained. "For the shops, the restaurants, the resorts and the expeditions...every day is Ground Hog's Day." Brad sighed. "Trust me," he encouraged, "Your version and perspective is less Ground Hog's Day and more National Lampoon." 

He quickly organized a spreadsheet of his favorite topics:  Amy on a camel. Amy giggling immaturely at the buffet. Amy appalled at a swim-up bar. Amy appalled at the foam party. Amy foregoing her plan to tackle the Big Five each day (margarita: no repeat flavors, daiquiri: no repeat flavors, Pina colada, mimosa, and a specialty cocktail: no repeats) to switch exclusively to tequila. 

The common denominator across all the categories was the giggling. Admittedly, Sydney and I are the least mature members of our family. We are easily amused and impressed. "Complimentary" beer during the shuttle ride to the resort could not be passed up. We grabbed our cans and cackled like naughty hens. I began a stimulating conversation with a man from Saskatchewan about their abundant soybean harvest while Sydney fretted that one beer tended to make her sleepy. I dismissed her worries before resuming my Canadian conversation by bragging about Wyoming County's plethora of potatoes. I'm not sure if it was the beer or the boasting, but we began to lose Sydney. Fortunately, we'd arrived at the resort. "Wow! Time really fries when you're having fun," I smiled at my neighbor to the north before nudging Sydney awake. "We'll ketchup with you later!" I waved as we exited the shuttle.

The second round of giggles occurred the minute we walked into our state room. 

The predominant feature of the room was...a bathtub.

We giggled at the tub, the generously-stocked-with complimentary-beverages mini-fridge, the mini bar, the rain shower, and the weirdly-shaped but well-intended towel sculpture perched on our bed.

We pulled ourselves together enough to go down to dinner.

We were sophisticated. "Thank you, sir, for pulling out my chair for me." Elegant. "Yes, a drink would be lovely." Poised. "Let me spread this fine linen napkin demurely across my lap." Cultured. And reserved. A credit to the good Mosiman name.

Until we weren't.

One step into the "buffet" and we were done.

Wide eyed. One might say bulging...like in a cartoon.

Giggling to the point of guffawing.

There was some pointing. Gesturing (like a Price is Right model motioning to A BRAND NEW CAR!).

Hissing. Shouting. Gasps of delight. A lengthy photo shoot.

We finally came to our senses when Sydney dipped her hand into the two-story chocolate fountain like she was going to baptize herself with Holy Water. 

Time to go.

To giggle another day.

Cabo-yes? Cabo-no? Too late now...time to go.

 I'm not sure how it happened. Jack Frost had hit the snooze alarm on the sunrise for, far, too many days. I was groggy. Ornery. Short-tempered. Impatient. Simmering. "You know what you need?" Sydney asked as I listed my litany of complaints to her over the phone. "What?" I growled, my inner-hibernating bear waiting to explode out of her cramped den. "Cabo," Sydney said, simply.

Cabo.

Two syllables of sunshine. A wave of relief washed over me. Yes. That was EXACTLY what I needed.

But...

Cabo...go?

Or...

Cabo...no?

Impulsively, I agreed and Sydney locked it in before my fears could gain ground.

Pictures and suggestions were sent to me daily...captivating carrots for Sydney's stubborn mule of a mother who began to obsessively worry. "What if I forget my passport?" I'd ask. Sydney would counter by offering me a choice between riding a camel or a horse on the beach. I debated those options for days. TSA is enough of a struggle for me, anxiety-wise. How on earth would I handle Customs? Sydney shared ten suggestions for swimsuits for my perusal and I agonized over skirt or shorts. 

I kept oddly quiet about my decision. What if I chickened out at the last minute and canceled my plans?

The week before break, my grade level team was playing cards at lunch when conversation turned, naturally, to our vacation. I merely shuffled the deck, remaining silent. Whew. Made it. Except I missed the devilish twinkle in my friend Katriel's eyes as she maneuvered the conversation back to me. "Will you be able to squeeze in a visit to your mom's before your flight?" she asked, eyes innocently wide as I glared at her. "Where are you going?" my friends said excitedly, turning to look at me expectantly. I was bubbling like a little volcano and could not staunch the sudden lava flow:  "Cabo, baby!" I shouted and the table erupted.

The next few days were filled with happy chatter so that I only had to contend with sleepless dread at
night. Who could possibly understand how I wanted to stay home, curled under a blanket on my chair, staring at re-runs rather than to bask in the warm sun, blinded by diamonds dancing off the water, a cold drink attached permanently to my hand?

For good or for bad, I made it out, right ahead of the weather.

Navigating carefully, Brad got me to the airport with ample time to spare. He cheerfully extracted me from the car and bustled away quickly.

I took a deep breath and headed to a kiosk. I could do this. Thousands of people do this every day.

Confirmation number. Blurred through the frightened tears in my eyes. I punched the buttons. Printed my ticket and then waited patiently for the luggage stickers.

And waited.

I hate those stupid luggage stickers. I can never seem to follow the directions correctly and end up completely enveloped in them.

I tried the kiosk panel again. No sticker.

I went to another kiosk. Nope.

Got in a line.

The wrong line.

Got waved over to the correct line and then babbled on and on about luggage to the poor man who could only stare at my tear-stained face as I lamented my utter failure in regards to the successful printing of luggage stickers. 

He effortlessly produced them for me and then asked if I was traveling alone. I could only nod as I thought about TSA and Customs ahead of me. Not to mention my intentionally going to a country where I do not speak the language or understand the currency exchange. I'm hard of hearing as it is and let's just throw an accent on top of that. Plus I am spatially unaware, am terrible at listening to AND following directions, get overwhelmed by my environment, and get motion sick.

"What?" I asked the ticket agent. He'd been talking for some time.

"I don't like your small window between Buffalo and Phoenix," he repeated (probably for the twelfth time), "I'm switching you over to Vegas." He took the tickets I had successfully pulled from the kiosk and gave me new ones. "Look," he said, "I marked your tickets so you can board without worry." He circled something on my ticket. "When the agent says this (insert Charlie Brown's teacher's voice here), I want you to board the plane. Do you understand?" I nodded. I did not understand. "You're going to do great," he said with a thumbs up as I shuffled sadly off.

I sniffled my way through TSA and found my gate. Inspecting my tickets, I was horrified to discover predominantly circled red ink declaring me eligible to board ahead of my fellow able-bodied passengers. I work in education. I knew what this was. I was given the airline equivalent of an IEP accommodation. The plane began the boarding process and, mortified, I hid behind a post until I was spotted by my kind benefactor who had apparently followed me to make sure I safely made it to my seat. Like a sheep dog, he herded me into the waiting line of wheelchairs. "I do not deserve special treatment," I hissed in my phone to Sydney. "You wear glasses," she sang cheerfully, "think of them as wheelchairs for your face." I dove for the first available seat which was located in the first row. The flight attendant wrestled my backpack away to store it in the overhead compartment...taking with it...my snacks. Leg room but no M&Ms. 

Five candy-less hours later, I made it to Vegas. A night-time flight over that city does NOT disappoint. The terminal is a nightmare for someone with sensory issues but once I was squirreled away in a safe little corner, I enjoyed watching the action

Vegas to San Diego...this time clutching my M&M container (aka: My backpack).

I made it! I stood outside, taking in the towering silhouettes of the swaying palm trees and reveling in the lack of snow when a voice cried out in the darkness, rising over the hundreds of conversations swirling around me, weaving through the traffic crawling along, waiting to gobble up passengers. "Mom!" It didn't occur to me and it certainly didn't register to Sydney Lynn...as Douglas turned to his wife as they raced toward me from a block away and he said, laughing, "Half of this crowd is made up of mothers. She's not going to respond to your voice." Sydney didn't bother answering him because I had already turned, waved my arms, and exclaimed joyously, "Sydney!"