Living Reflections from a Dream

Note: I originally wrote most of this (by hand!) while waiting for my flight home and on the flight from NYC Tues. night.

There I was, after a not so bad day (so what it included getting to the airport in plenty of time for the 1am shuttle, only to find the garage for my terminal full and central parking almost full - thanks to really intelligent construction in about half of the garage. so what that I had to park at least a 20 min. walk - behind the only people on earth who stand on the moving sidewalk - to the terminal. so I had to take the 7:30 instead.. I ran into my buddy, EF, on the plane - hi EF! so what that I had to listen to the car driver explain his whole life to me - it all started when he was born in Equador in 1952 - and listen to him complain for 45 minutes that his previous passenger, a person named Daniel from Morgan Stanley, had yelled at him about the traffic. Doesn't Daniel know that he, the driver, can't control the traffic?! So I got my period 4 days early, totally unexpectedly? So what about all these things.. it still wasn't a bad day).

The day flew by in a series of meetings. By 4pm when we left for drinks with clients, all I'd eaten was coffee (by the gallon), some salad and some grilled vegetables. Not exactly stomach lining foods. Three glasses of wine (in stemless wine glasses - the new trend apparently), and a handful of popcorn later, I stand on the street in lower Manhattan trying to catch a cab to Laquardia. A cab stops, I get in, I close the door. I tell him I'm off to the airport and he says: sorry, I'm off duty and kicks me out. A car company tries to pick me. He says he'll "only" charge me $65. $65 to Laquardia.. the guy is on crack. I shoo him away. I continue to stand and stand and stand and stand. No cabs. Waaaa... it's dark and cold in NYC and I just know all these people around me are Yankee fans. I just want to go home. Home! Waaaaa... I'm starting to panic. I'll never get home ... why is it so hard to get home? Then it happened.. and I'm not proud. Tears started welling up.. right there on the street. Now I'm drunk, hormonal and sobbing in Manhattan, still undoubtedly surrounded by Yankees fans and now I have to go to the bathroom.

Finally, a car service says he'll take me - under the table for $40. Let's go, driver boy. Seriously, who wouldn't want to sit in a car with a sniffliing mess like me for 45 minutes and make $40 (which somehow turned into $45 when we got there - bastard). When I finally get to the gate, I see that the same 2 women are working the gate as the time it took me 6 hours to get home from NYC. I begin to dispair. I just want to go home! The pilot comes on and announces we are approximately 2 billion for takeoff due to "rush hour" traffic on the runway - at 8pm - and I wonder as I do each time I fly to NY, why I don't take the Acela. At least you know what you're dealing with. Anything can happen on US Airways. At this point, I pass out and sleep the for the entire flight. Eventually, I arrive back in Boston (wo!), walk the 20 min. back to my car - incredibly the same friggin people are blocking me on the moving sidewalk causing me to nearly have another meltdown. Did I mention that I just want to go home? Eventually I find my car, get in and realize: tomorrow night is my bookclub. Not only have I not read the book, I didn't even read the whole description of the book sent to.. in fact, I can't even remember the name of the book. Yup, tomorrow is really looking up.