After scheduling a trip to Oregon, I sprain my ankle. With only six days to recover, I’m in a tizzy. But I don’t cancel my plans. I buy a collapsible cane and hope for the best. Go with the flow…
The evening before my flight, I drive to the hotel near XNA. The desk clerk says my reservation is actually for tomorrow. And the hotel is full. But she sees I’m exhausted. Defeated. She does fifteen minutes of keyboard massage and lo—a room. The one they save for emergencies. I, apparently, am such an emergency.
My early morning flight boards on time but sits at length on the tarmac. The pilot announces the flight plan was changed. We’re waiting for the new plan to be downloaded. I wish my hotel clerk was here. She could do it lickety-split.
Finally, we move to the runway. And sit. The pilot explains that due to the new flight plan, we must “burn fuel” before take-off. I’ve not flown a plane, but when I drive my van, I never let the engine idle just to burn fuel before a trip. I remind myself: Beyond my control. Go with the flow.
We arrive in Denver quite late—mere minutes before my next flight—so I run, new cane folded in my laptop satchel. My ankle is holding, thanks to the support of my tall leather boots. But my bladder can’t stand the motion. It leaks. It pours. My legs are wet. The front of my dress has a large dark spot. Obviously, I must stop in the ladies room. Beyond my control.
I blot my dress and undies, wipe my legs and wrap my jacket around my waist to disguise the damage. I resume running.
When I arrive at the gate, my plane is leaving. I’m stuck in Denver. The gatekeeper books me on the next flight—in eight hours—and gives me two $15 vouchers for food. Go with the flow.
I chose these flights so I wouldn’t have to drive a rental car in the dark on crooked and steep Oregon roads from Eugene to Florence. My plan is foiled. Don’t think about it. Beyond my control.
I scour the Denver airport for a new pair of undies. You can buy hoodies, shirts, purses. But no panties.
I need a drink.
I order dinner and a glass of Chardonnay in an airport restaurant—where the prices of food are printed on the menu, but alcohol prices are a secret. I don’t care.
The meal turns out to be delicious, and I ask the waiter about the surprisingly good wine. He shows me the bottle. “Retails for $20 a bottle outside the airport—$20 a glass inside the airport,” he tells me. Go with the flow.
My next flight changes gates twice and is delayed multiple times. I call the car rental people to explain that I’ll be very late. But I’m talking to somebody in India, not Oregon. Beyond my control.
Flying toward Eugene, I panic. The airport car rental closes at 11 p.m. I’ll be late. I envision spending the night on a bench in the Eugene Airport. Go with the flow.
But the car rental counter is lit. I retrieve my car, my suitcase, and my courage, and drive to Florence in the dark. In the rain. I find my AirBNB, all by myself. I shower, and crawl between the sheets. I’ve discovered I am capable.
Moral: Going with the flow might reveal you’re not as fragile as you think.And always carry a change of underwear.
Delightful!