Fly Away Home

Scott and I stand at the flight board staring in dismayed disbelief. Such a perfect trip. How can this be its ending? All flights north delayed.

I text Charlotte. "Flights to Philly and NYC all delayed. What gives?"

She writes back "A few flakes of snow."

Nothing like Mother Nature to put my life into a tailspin. Beyotch that she is.

We start to walk away and I have a flashback to the end of the flight. As the plane inched toward the gate on the Tarmac we had been trying to collect our stuff to make our way from plane to food court to gate to plane again.our cheerful flight attendant was telling us about gate changes and where such-and-such passenger could meet their party, and blah blah blah when suddenly she'd said, "And the gentleman in row 16 who had asked about his connecting flight to Philadelphia, the good news is that you have not missed your connection. The bad news is, your flight is delayed."

It was Pretty Boy and Tries Too Hard. Scott had audibly snickered.

I stopped in my tracks. Scott thought I might be losing my mind. I asked if we could go back to the board.

"Why? The flights are all delayed."

I insist. "But those jerks next to us whose flight was delayed thought they were going to miss their flight. It must have been earlier than ours."

Scott is a quick study. "Oh, delayed but earlier than ours!" a glimmer of hope.

We run back, check the board and scramble to the desk at the gate from which that flight is scheduled to depart. We ask how we might get on it.

A lovely woman takes our boarding passes and enters our information. Then she carefully explains how we have a better chance at an audience with the Pope than getting on this friggin' flight.

Priority will be given to frequent flier program members. (I should hope so,but that doesn't help us)
Flight insurance counts.
People holding higher priced tickets will be given first dibs?
And about a dozen other little discriminations.

We are told to look at the TV screen and wait for our first initial and last name to turn green on the "confirmed list."

I can barely see the TV much less the confirmed list. Or make out the letters on it. The color green is the only thing that doesn't present a problem.

Resigned to an evening of torturous confinement In the airport, Scott and I drag ourselves to the nearest restaurant. It is full. Every table. There is another one half a mile down the corridor by the watch kiosk and the Overpriced Gum Candy Magazine and Cheap Souvenir Depot, but Scott doesn't want to wander too far from the confirmed list. He actually wants to stay near enough to feel the warmth and radiation from the monitor itself, but I am about to have a full on low blood sugar moment of public bitchiness.

He knows the signs and compromises. We'll stand looking starved and miserable and pathetic on the periphery of the dining are and pressure the table of one monopolizing the table for four into taking that last bite of burger to go.

It works. We are seated within minutes.

Burgers, fries and one last vacation beer. With a side of anxiety.

I text Hil and Pat. Scott texts his girls. He still has a 90 mile drive after we get home. Whenever that is.

We return to bask in the glow of the TV monitor. It is like watching a horse race. The available seats, the upgrades, the names being matched, and turning green. It is a race to the finish.

But finally, moments before boarding is to start and our hopes will be dashed or prayers answered, the airline decides that the remaining seats need not be held for potential frequent fliers or high priced buyers, and the rest of us are moved to the confirmed list.

Scott and I are not seated together but are one row apart. We sweetly ask if our row-mates would mind switching. Scott refers to me as his wife when he makes his request. How cute.

Finally we are on our way-and will actually arrive earlier than expected.life is good.

But I am blue that the trip is really and truly over. And I miss the kids. And the cat. And Scott. Already.