Sunday, March 9, 2014


     
                                                  TRAVELING COACH



     I knew that if I planned a trip to Michigan in March that I would be taking my chances. It could rain, snow, sleet or spit. Leaving home in 52 degree rain and 48 mph winds wasn’t ideal either, but off I went. My new 20-pound ugly flat boots were tucked in my carry-on. Once I realized that the plane was going to be 15 minutes late, I googled the weather in Charlotte (my connection). “Travel Advisory--Wintry Mix.” joy.

     The plane took off 15 minutes late, and I settled in for the short trek to more ugly.
We landed safely, and I got out of the plane with 11 minutes to get from Gate B to Gate Q. No problem--I took the Coach (my Coach booties, that is). I booked it as fast as my little spikes would carry me, dragging the ugly black boots behind me. Three minutes left--could I make it? Now I broke into a sprint--praying I wouldn’t end up flat on my face.
I screeched into the gate at one minute before take-off, sweat flowing into my lip gloss. The woman at the gate was terse, clucking her dentures as she opened the door to let me through. “Hurry up,” she chirped. “Bite me,” I muttered.

      I avoided eye contact with the entire plane of passengers who discovered why they  hadn’t taken off. I wiped my brow and closed my eyes. Barely into a peaceful slumber, I felt something hot on my foot. I looked down and the clown across the aisle had spilled his coffee on my classy Coach bootie. I looked over at him. He looked so pathetic wiping off the his zipper and the entire top of his lap, I couldn’t get angry. I smiled, and said, “Some days just go like this. Want some vodka?”