Yet another miracle

Greetings, loyal readers. And hello to all the other people too. Again I write from a high and slightly bumpy altitude above the Lone Star State. It is, in fact, a miracle that I am writing at this particular time from this particular location. The problem is, I belong to a large group of Americans who routinely suffer due to an inferior set of life-skills, mostly decision-making ones. I do not blame my problem on my parents, who are well above average intelligence, or my schooling, which was of the finest quality available to me, nor do I blame the government, a fashionable option as of late. No, I am persuaded that my inability to function correctly in the real world is entirely my own fault. I am deficient in the capability of recognizing the obvious.

To the point: I checked in via MySouthwest login nearly 24 hours in advance of my flight. I noted the departure time. I printed my 'group A' boarding pass (with a significant amount of glee, I might add) and saw the departure time on it. Greg and I left Chattanooga in plenty of time to make the Nashville airport, although traffic was quite heavy and we were slowed to a meandering 55 miles-per-hour for a good deal of the trip. We circled the terminal parking at least three times, finally coming to rest in the short term deck, and found a suitable sandwich stand to pass the 1 hour until my flight left. As we strolled toward the security lines, I heard familiar words over the public address system. Some person with my name was being summoned for a flight to Los Angeles aboard Southwest. But I had a full 30 minutes before departure!! I left poor Greg with arms outstretched as I threw down my overstuffed backpack, extracted my laptop from it's case, removed my sandals, jacket and a penny from my pocket, all the while blubbering to the security personnel that I had just been paged for a final boarding call. Too bad I forgot to remove my ziploc bag of liquids, gels and lotions. I motioned for Greg to alert the Southwest counter that I was on my way while explaining to the guard that my non-terrorist toiletries were in the top portion of my bag. He informed me not to touch the bag and to declare said hair cleanser, etc., the next time I encountered security. In my mind, I informed him that it might be this very security checkpoint first thing in the morning if he did not hand me my bag. I raced to gate C-7 after checking the departure monitors, which diagnosed my dyslexia: my head recalled a six followed by a five, and then a two. The monitors confirmed my mistake by transposing the two and five. I ran. The ticket-taker smiled knowingly as I approached him – I was officially the last passenger to board the plane. So much for group A. I am four rows from the rear of a 737 sandwiched between two gentlemen, one an unmistakable smoker and one of considerable size and a seeming inability to fall asleep for more than half a second (he keeps jerking – you know, the classic head-nodder, but with his entire body).

Hence the miracle of my current situation in Mountain Time.

HEMATOMA UPDATE: Good thing I believe in the reality of grace, because I definitely spent this Lord's Day morning in the waiting room of the Physician's Care Walk-in Clinic watching DVDs on my laptop with Greg. The line stretched nearly out the door yesterday and was the same this morning, but I decided it was worth it. Two episodes of The Office (with deleted scenes) and one and a half of The Dog Whisperer later, a nurse with the personality of a turnip took x-rays of my left leg and an overworked physician told me that I could expect a small, fibrous, even calcified, bump on my shin for a long time, maybe forever. In the meantime, I am to apply moist heat four times daily and take Advil with every meal for two weeks. He offered to write a prescription for said anti-inflammatory, but I politely declined, remembering Blue Cross' stance on pre-existing conditions. I am a planner, people.

The teenage boy in the seat in front of me is watching Goodfellas. I am appalled at the violence in the first ten minutes alone.

Katie's recent comment on my post about her visit from last weekend reminded me of a few details I should have shared. Our stroll on Muscle Beach was enlightening. There was a 5-year-old driving a mini-motorcycle, an equally young man riding a full-sized bike (I keptKatie's recent comment on my post about her visit from last weekend reminded me of a few asking Katie 'how is he going to get down??'), a grassy square where gymnasts and people who thought they were gymnasts were practicing hula-hooping (one 40ish lady had waist-length, hot pink-streaked dreadlocks, skin-tight pants and faux fur around her collar), yoga, somersaulting (one gentleman wore nothing but jeans and conjured thoughts of Nick Nolte's mug shot as he unceremoniously flung his body to the ground over and over in what seemed to me to be a drunken stupor) and headstands. My attention was snatched away from this enthralling scene only briefly as 5 young-20s men drove by on impossibly small trick bicycles with chrome rims, their leader on a tricycle fitted to accommodate a sub-woofer that blasted rap tunes and announced their Santa Monica bicycle cruising club status to all with ears to hear. I even bought this postcard for my grandma at the Pier (see left). The back reads: Giant North American Brown Swirled Tabby male facing off against an armada of dirigibles, helicopters and small aircraft near downtown LA, CA.

I have never seen the word dirigibles printed on a postcard before in my life. I probably never will again.

I am flabbergasted at the nearness of Christmas and entirely unprepared. Melanie and I are thinking of boycotting gift-giving this year just on principle.

More later, when my battery is full and my eyes are not so heavy.