I am a nervous traveler. On the outside I (hope) I project a confident, knows-what-she’s-doing-and-where-she’s-going seasoned traveler. But really? I fly about once every 3 years. I can’t sleep the night before because I’m mentally going through my luggage and endlessly debating my footwear choices. The cute, white sneaks or the practical Sauconys? It’s a nail-biter. I can’t decide and this is why I will never be president. I obsessively measured my carryon and spent the past 24 hrs. worrying because WITH the handle, it is slightly outside the rigid inches allowed. But since my only other choice is Judah’s Lego Ninjago suitcase, I’m risking it all. Will mine fit? WILL IT?
It’s too late now, as I have arrived at Pittsburgh International. I didn’t cry when I hugged Chad goodbye but I wanted to. Mainly because I stayed awake all night ruminating on shoes. I’m on no sleep, people.
Also, I will miss him a little.
I spend the time in the TSA line surreptitiously comparing my bag to others’ and feel marginally better when I see mine appears to be no larger than most.
Through security, and on hastily re-shod feet, my bowels begin to untwist as I follow the crowd up escalators to the trams. Listening to snippets of conversation around me, I climb aboard, still eyeballing other carryons. Man, are they fancy. Hard sides, wheels that spin every
Hold on, taking off. I hate this part.
which way. My battered case is old and utility black, with pink floral duct tape wound around the handle that is starting to unstick. I’m lucky if both wheels spin in the same direction at the same time.
I check my boarding pass for the 67th time to be sure I’m in the right place. It seems right, but I’ll look again in a minute because I might have read it wrong.
15 min. until boarding. Should I find a bathroom? I don’t need one, but I might later and I’ll do almost anything to avoid airplane bathrooms. Especially after seeing World War Z. That may have been a mistake to mention, because now I’m thinking about zombies.
I’m on. No one even glanced at my carryon.
But will they measure at O’Hare?
I’m starting to regret that early cup of coffee, but no way am I going into that closet toilet. Because, zombies.
Wish me luck.