So, I signed up for Romantic Times Convention a while back. So long ago I thought I might me a different, more worldly person by the time I boarded the plane. The time came and went. I was somehow less worldly when I squished into my Southwest airlines seat.
I kept waiting for something to change. For sure things would go conkwire and I would somehow not get to go. I hadn't been on a plane in over ten years. Took the kids to school and my handsome chauffer took us to Baltimore with no trouble. Before I knew it I was parked in the kiss and go area. So I kissed my chauffer. (He’s also my husband, which made this whole situation easier.) As I drag my bullshit into the airport, I try to catch his eye for a wave. He ignored me.
Okay. No problem. Driving is important. I get to the Southwest check in and find out I’m too early to be at the airport. The man points me to a few waiting chairs by the large windows.
I drag all my craziness in and look around like the well-seasoned asshole I am. My phone dings. As I’m looking for it I notice some cop lights reflecting off the windows. I find my phone and look at my texts. The husband informs me with a smilie :) that he’s been pulled over. Those lights I’m seeing are marking his place. Turns out we had a mildly expired registration. Which is a teeny bit illegal.
I text back, “Do you want me to come out there?”
The answer to this, in case you are playing the home game for the first time, is always no. When cops are involved, the appropriate answer is, “No way in hell.”
So I dragged all my weirdness around, trying to find where his van was. The reflecting lights were like a creepy fun house and I darted in front of all the windows. I’m sure this put up no flags of concern for TSA who were strapping on double gloves for my impending body cavity search.
Finally I found him and pressed up against the window waiting for the verdict. The texts coming from my husband were alarming. There were chances that the car would be impounded right there.
Jesus. What about my babies in school? My too-big-to-be-called-babies kids that were trapped in their educational buildings surrounded by tons of friends and parents we know that could pitch in in an emergency? Panic ensues. I put one of my big paws against the window.
The cop (I love cops and they have a hard job!!) took 4 million hours to run everything and deliver the verdict. The husband got a warning and a notice to get the registration updated. He gives me the all clear.
I still had another few minutes to wait before I was legally allowed to enter the airport as a person. I was so early. I was like a pile of senior citizens arriving for dinner early.
Finally, I can check in. With the wide eyes of airport stupidity. In case you are wondering, regular plane commuters do not have time for my hillbilly shit.
The Southwest person helps me check my bag and points me to TSA. I take off all my clothes and get in line. Which is not protocol, I came to learn from a women with a stern face and very pointy nails. Okay, not really, but everyone there really assumes you’ve done this before. There are always at least two lines. Passengers and Pre-TSA. What the hell does that mean? No one tells you. I take a wild guess and get on the passenger line. The next thing I know I’m standing barefoot in one of those nudie scanners that were all over the news like four years ago. I knew what it meant. Quick Star Wars style strip tease. I felt dirty when I got out. How many other people had stood naked for a spilt second in that contraption before me? I’m betting a lot.
So now I only had three hours to kill and my stress IBS was acting up. Oh god.