“What is the deal? ” You asked with a heavy emphasis on is along with the obligatory, “This sucks.” You’d said it at least thirty times since we got on I-95. And at this rate, you’d say it another thirty. But it did. You know – suck. It sucked big time. And I had the feeling it was going to get even suckier as I turned on the windshield wipers full blast blurring the sea of red tail-lights.
A white box truck, the kind they thought the D.C. sniper drove, wasn’t paying attention and nearly hit my little Miata. You know what I said, but I won't make you relive it. I sighed hard, took in a deep breath, only to catch a whiff of your recycled lunch.
A white box truck, the kind they thought the D.C. sniper drove, wasn’t paying attention and nearly hit my little Miata. You know what I said, but I won't make you relive it. I sighed hard, took in a deep breath, only to catch a whiff of your recycled lunch.
“What’d ya eat?” I asked rolling down the window, not caring if the rain hit me. You feigned idiocy and laughed. Hard!
I laughed too, only a little. But I really was annoyed. I didn’t have any place to go and Miatas are dinky little cars.
At least that broke the tension. And man alive, there was a lot.
Playing center stage in the matinee in my mind, was all the worse case scenarios – We’d miss the plane. We wouldn’t catch another plane. They’d take you out of the trial even if it was working. We’d get to BWI just in time to see our plane taxi down the runway. We’d never get another flight out. We’d be stuck in this traffic until tomorrow morning. There'd be another wreck. I’d get fat because I didn’t do my P90X. I’d run out of Dentyne. You’d never make it back in time for the Leesburg Grand Opening of Wegmans. We’d run out of battery for our phones. We’d run out of gas. We'd run out of food. We couldn't find a bathroom--ever. It didn't matter if I was full of Diet Mountain Dew. It just didn't. All that was playing out. And I hadn't even finished the first act.
I laughed too, only a little. But I really was annoyed. I didn’t have any place to go and Miatas are dinky little cars.
At least that broke the tension. And man alive, there was a lot.
Playing center stage in the matinee in my mind, was all the worse case scenarios – We’d miss the plane. We wouldn’t catch another plane. They’d take you out of the trial even if it was working. We’d get to BWI just in time to see our plane taxi down the runway. We’d never get another flight out. We’d be stuck in this traffic until tomorrow morning. There'd be another wreck. I’d get fat because I didn’t do my P90X. I’d run out of Dentyne. You’d never make it back in time for the Leesburg Grand Opening of Wegmans. We’d run out of battery for our phones. We’d run out of gas. We'd run out of food. We couldn't find a bathroom--ever. It didn't matter if I was full of Diet Mountain Dew. It just didn't. All that was playing out. And I hadn't even finished the first act.
You texted Katie and your Wegmans posse, while I started the second act of my worst case scenarios. Then we got a break in the rain and traffic. And coasted along at a whopping thirty five miles an hour. We even dared to hope that we’d make it to BWI. That's when I got to talking about Hannah and how she always helped me out. She's always been there when I needed her. Remember?
“Do you believe in my guardian angel?” I asked, but didn't wait for your answer.
Then I told you all the times Hannah just made everything work out. Like the time I locked myself out of my house when I was little. The door was locked, I knew it was locked. I’d tried to open the door twenty times. Then when I’d given up – the door opened.
“Say you believe.” I said, but you only nodded a half-hearted nod. “Say you believe.” I said, taking my eyes of the road, so I could see the green in your pupils. “Say it.”
“Do you believe in my guardian angel?” I asked, but didn't wait for your answer.
Then I told you all the times Hannah just made everything work out. Like the time I locked myself out of my house when I was little. The door was locked, I knew it was locked. I’d tried to open the door twenty times. Then when I’d given up – the door opened.
“Say you believe.” I said, but you only nodded a half-hearted nod. “Say you believe.” I said, taking my eyes of the road, so I could see the green in your pupils. “Say it.”
“I believe.” You said eyes fixated on the Garmin GPS, so I'd get my eyes back on the road.
“Do you?” I downshifted in concert to another wave in the sea of tail-lights. “Or are you just saying that so I don’t kill you on the way to trying to save you?”
“I believe.” You half-smiled straightening out the creases in your jeans. “But we only have 65 minutes until the plane takes off."
“I believe too.” I said. “Let’s just keep saying what could go right.”
“You first.” You said, eyes center front, still tracking the Garmin GPS.
“Okay. Okay.” I said imagining some good scenarios. “I got it. There won’t be a line for Security. Or they’ll let us through because we’re running late. The plane may be delayed. Or....”
We imagined all the best scenarios that we could. Sometimes it was hard, because we weren’t moving. And to top it, Garmin took us off track a little. But, we made it to BWI. Just barely. We got long term parking a half an hour before the plane was supposed to take off.
It’s okay that you flipped off the first bus that left us in long term parking. Another one showed up a minute later. It’s okay that the first line in Security was long. Because when we told TSA agent about our saga, he sent us to a different security line. And we got through it fast.
It's okay, you got selected for a random body search. The search was fast and you could put you shoes on at the gate. It's okay that we’d never flown on Southwest and were confused when the cattle troughs to open seating – opened. It's okay that we got split up, because I got on first and saved you a window seat – your favorite.
You stuffed your duffle bag in the overhead and I moved to the aisle so you had the window seat. We sat down. And sighed long and hard. We had to. We had to erase nearly three hours of rain, wrecks, bumper to bumper traffic, near misses, full bladders, worse case scenarios, and recycled lunch.
I said, “Holy Hannah.” It was the only thing left to say. And you nodded – like you meant it. This time.
It’s okay that you flipped off the first bus that left us in long term parking. Another one showed up a minute later. It’s okay that the first line in Security was long. Because when we told TSA agent about our saga, he sent us to a different security line. And we got through it fast.
It's okay, you got selected for a random body search. The search was fast and you could put you shoes on at the gate. It's okay that we’d never flown on Southwest and were confused when the cattle troughs to open seating – opened. It's okay that we got split up, because I got on first and saved you a window seat – your favorite.
You stuffed your duffle bag in the overhead and I moved to the aisle so you had the window seat. We sat down. And sighed long and hard. We had to. We had to erase nearly three hours of rain, wrecks, bumper to bumper traffic, near misses, full bladders, worse case scenarios, and recycled lunch.
I said, “Holy Hannah.” It was the only thing left to say. And you nodded – like you meant it. This time.
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