The Day of Questionable Fate

It’s been ten days since my last post, and what do I have to show for it?

One thirty dollar t-shirt from Medieval Times signed by the blue knight, one golden chalice, an unpacked suitcase from six days ago, two plane tickets home from Chicago, a severely overdrawn bank account, one pawned iPod, two days of hysteria, and an empty bottle of red wine.

So the fact of the matter is that my fate and impatience have a habit of colliding at some of the worst possible moments in my life. Not unlike a train wreck, really, when all is said and done. Last Sunday, I arrive at Midway airport in Chicago two hours before my scheduled departure --which is nearly unheard of in itself. I stroll up to the self check-in computer, punch in my carefully scribbled confirmation number, and retrieve my boarding pass.

Only, that last part never happens.

I look around as my hands start to sweat a bit and calmly re-punch the code, VSZZZM. Then the screen instructs me to please see the attendant at the Frontier counter. The bag on my shoulder begins to weigh ninety pounds, and I can tell you that it does not weigh ninety pounds. In real life it does not weigh ninety pounds because that bag on my shoulder is my purse. And if I carry a purse that ever weighs more than two pounds, then I’ll know I’ve made it. I’ll know because I’ll have cash to put in my wallet. I’ll carry a million, one-dollar bills in it, wear a velour sweat suit, and talk with a Long Island accent. Everything feels heavy, and I know that something has gone terribly wrong.

I assume there must’ve been a mistake, so I approach the sociopathic, 10-foot woman behind the counter. After ten minutes of key punching and questioning, she looks down at me. “Honey, she says --in a tone that tells me she’s ready to give this blonde girl the name of two cross streets where she grew up and it’s supposed to mean something, “...your flight was yesterday.” I probably would’ve even seen her smile if I weren’t concentrating so hard on choking back my tears.

For those of you fortunate enough to have use of the left side of your brain, let me explain what it feels like to come to the horrifying realization that you’ve missed your flight by AN ENTIRE DAY: I step away from the counter mechanically, grab a brochure of the table, and search for feeling in my legs. Commanding myself to focus, I dial the Frontier reservation hot line. A kind voice answers and informs me that as of October 1, it is necessary to call ahead and notify Frontier that you will be missing your scheduled flight. Otherwise, you forfeit all ticket value and flight privileges. Right about then, the bottom drops out.

The boring part is that after that I boarded a $400 flight home to Denver. The unnerving part is that these things (that according to Jess “only happen to [me]”) occur with sobering regularity. For instance, the time Jess and I took a friend’s kayak to the Boulder reservoir, and I cracked her windshield loading it into the 4Runner. Or the time I got out of my LSAT practice exam and the instructor asked me when I was taking the actual test. When I smiled and said, “Tomorrow,” she informed me that the test had taken place the day before. I guess there’s nothing that says you’re not ready for law school like missing the entrance exam.

What’s ironic is how these instances throw such a wrench into the image of the sometimes irritatingly meticulous, perfectionistic person I am turning out to be. Though my friend Brian once crowned me “one of two intelligent people I know who actually believe in astrology,” it wouldn’t be without reason here to mention the day I was born. September 6, 1983 is known as “The Day of Questionable Fate.” Which sound about right. According to the text, I can plan my life and arrange everything just so, but it will be upset by an inevitable force beyond my control. The text advises someone born on this day to “roll with the punches.” My mother, who's redundant advice is to “toughen up,” is probably smiling right now.

Back in Boulder, just when I think I’m home free and can indulge in a good, hard, self-pity sob session in the privacy of my own apartment, my mother's sixth sense kicks in from 2,000 miles away. By early in the week, I have three missed calls. So on Wednesday, I listen to her voicemail. Suddenly, I know the thing that only a daughter can know. She knows.

Believe it or not, I actually promised myself that I wouldn’t tell anyone what happened to me at the airport last Sunday. I thought, this time I’m not going to do it. I have sunk so low on the stupidity scale that I’ve weighed in at anorexic. I may need to be hospitalized for severe idiocracy. No one can know that I was the hysterical girl walking tear-blind through Midway airport. Not even my best friend will understand buying an airline ticket at an actual reservation counter. No one, I said to myself, no one.

Luckily, six days later, a bit of the humor has set in.

(Jess says "The Day of Questionable Fate" is part of my plan --that it gives me something to write about. Good point.)