Well-versed in how to best handle my anxiety with crowds and unfamiliar places, I found a snug little hidey-hole and hunkered down, within eye-sight of my gate, and ripped open my box of Cracker Jacks. When the video I clicked on blasted, I fumbled with the side of my phone to lower the volume...somehow, initiating the accessibility feature on my device. I didn't even know that my cell phone had an accessibility feature.
I could no longer access ANYTHING on my phone. I would tap on one of those little squares for Facebook, gmail, text messages, ect and they would light up green and tell me that they were Facebook, gmail, text messages, ect.
Naturally, I panicked.
I clicked, poked, prodded, and punched those little boxes.
I powered up and powered down...several times.
I couldn't contact anyone. Alone before...I was REALLY alone now.
It was then that my phone rang.
Brad Mosiman.
I shook my cell phone violently...like I was either making a margarita or erasing an Etch-a-Sketch and miraculously heard my husband's voice.
How does he do it? Hundreds...sometimes thousands, of miles away and still...he knows.
"What's wrong?" he demanded.
Hiccuping. Gasping. Crying. I tried to explain. Somewhere in the middle of all this idiocy...I had failed to notice that I wasn't so hidden anymore in my hidey-hole. Surrounded by a mass of people, I was very aware of my language and didn't want to yell out the word "handicap" in the middle of the Midway Airport. Thank goodness for "Glee."
"I accidentally triggered the Handicapable feature on my phone and now I can't access any of the little box-y things," I whisper-shook at him.
Normally this is where Brad Mosiman utilizes his "tough-love" strategy..."Get yourself together, Woman!"...but he immediately realized that that method maybe wasn't going to work at this particular time. "I'm going to call Sydney and Doug," he told me, "They'll call you back in just a minute. Hang in there."
Sydney called back in record time and I was able to answer using my shake-a-weight strategy. I tried explaining but couldn't. "Mom, are you alone or are there people near you?" We decided that I should move. "I'll call you back in four minutes, " Sydney promised as I juggled my packed backpack, phone, book, and open box of Cracker Jacks.
I found a new hidey-hole, crawled under the seat to plug in my charger as my phone was at an alarming 17%, situated my belongings, balanced my open box of Cracker Jacks on the armrest and waited.
With a twist and flick, I answered my phone.
It was Brad.
"You do know what the worst-case scenario is, right?" he asked me gently.
I sniffled.
"Amy..."
I hate when he calls me that.
He persisted. "What's the worst-case scenario?"
I paused to think. The only phone number I had memorized was Sydney's. I would have to write Brad's down before we hung up. What if my flight was delayed or, oh my goodness, cancelled? ("We track your flight on the app," I was informed by my daughters later. What voodoo is this?)
"I would have to ask someone to borrow their phone," I whispered, horrified.
"Worse-case scenario," my husband told me, "is that, if we can't fix this, I drive to Chicago."
My stomach unknotted. Muscles relaxed. Teeth unclenched. My brow unfurled. Suddenly, I could breathe again. My heart was full. Of course I was going to get my silly self on that plane and fly home. But knowing that my husband was willing to offer this ridiculous option calmed me.
"Thank you," I whispered. Sydney's name flashed on my screen. "Good luck," Brad said as I whipped my phone into action again.
"Doug's watching a Youtube video right now," Sydney reassured me...NOT reassuring me at all. Doug has YET to see me at my best. So far, all he has witnessed is me getting caught at the airport smuggling 20 bottles of Ice Pineapple-Coconut waters in my suitcase, me getting hopelessly lost at LAX, me insisting that I was in danger of being sex traffic-ed when a friendly man tried to engage me in conversation as I did the sting-ray shuffle in Mission Bay, and me freaking out at various semi-busy restaurants. I am NOT coming off as the strong, capable, kick-ass woman that I am. "Okay," Sydney said after a quiet, side-chat with Douglas, "Apparently this happens more often than you think..." I sighed. Sydney had her human-resources voice on (Also known as "The talk the insane person off the ledge" voice) which meant that I was, indeed, the only idiot in the world to have gotten myself into such a mess. "All you have to do," she instructed, "is press the power button on the back until it vibrates and then, tap-tap, the screen."
Oh, for pete's sake. I rolled my eyes (proving that I was still in the game, somewhat). I had already done that. Several times. I am the wife of a man who trouble-shoots for a LIVING. I hear ALL the stories of the doofuses (doofusi?) who don't try powering down first or the super-doofuses (super-doofusi?) who aren't even PLUGGED in...Can you imagine?
"Mom, repeat it back to me."
Ugh. That's the latest Mosiman strategy to deal with me during panic attacks. All it succeeds in doing, however, is to add an extra layer of emotion to my already-exploding lava cake. This is called the "I want to punch you in the face" layer.
Through clenched teeth, I repeated her instructions back.
"I'll call you back in five minutes. Good luck." (This message will detonate in seven seconds.)
I tried.
Failed.
My phone was now at 14%.
WTF
Wait. Maybe the Youtube video was confusing the power button on the back with the sound buttons on the side. The sound buttons that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.
Oh no.
I sank to my knees and attempted to gather them up like a mother hen...lamenting their too-short lives...mortified that I had made a mess at the airport.
The phone rang.
"And...???" Sydney cautiously asked.
"I....spu....spuh...I spu...illed," I sputtered, crouched on the floor, pulling in Cracker Jacks like a Black Jack dealer racking in chips.
"Mom, are you okay?" Her voice faded as she turned to Douglas. "I can't understand her. It must not have worked."
"It worked," I managed as I lunged after the caramel-coated marbles shooting all across the airport floor. "I spilled my Cracker Jacks..."
Sydney was the perfect Mosiman on this particular call.
"Oh Mom, I'm so sorry."
I could hear Douglas's baffled voice in the background. I imagined Sydney waving him off. He wouldn't be able to relate. He has protein containers the size of my cheese ball barrels on top of his fridge.
I raced over to her as she rolled her cleaning cart along. Gesturing madly (with my still 1/3 full box of Cracker Jacks) and apologizing profusely, I explained my predicament. I pleaded for a broom so I could clean it up myself. Naturally, she was stunned. She stared at me, speechless. So I gestured some more with my still 1/3 full box.
Things came to a head when she reached out and snatched my still 1/3 full box of Cracker Jacks out of my hand and dumped it into her waste receptacle before trundling away, leaving me, shocked and speechless.
I returned to my hidey-hole, sulkily kicking Cracker Jacks out of my way, and picked up the phone to call Brad. It was now at 12%.
WTF.
I dropped to the floor again to check the outlet...and watched my charger swinging lifelessly on the end of its hangman's noose. Oh my gosh...I am such a doofus.
"Go buy yourself another snack," Brad urged but I was tapped out for the day. "I think I may have some M&Ms left over from my flight to San Diego," I said. "Good luck finding those," Sydney said after I'd checked in with her quick. She wasn't a fan of my carry-on packing style.
I looked around.
To hell with it.
Shoulder-deep, I monkey-fisted small handfuls of M&Ms...fishing them out from the depths of my backpack and then consumed them like a hungry chipmunk...deftly...daintily.
As I squirreled away my treat, a text came in:
What sort of nut comes in a Cracker Jack Box?
I texted back: Peanut
No. Walnut. Because Amy walnut fail in her quest to get home.
That's nut funny.
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