Well That's Not Good

My favorite storytellers in the world are little kids, partly because they're too young to fully understand the concept of time. To them, five hours is pretty much the same as five days ... they can't quite determine whether they should say yesterday or tomorrow when telling a story, and "I was there for 20 hundred minutes" could very well mean 20 seconds. I love how fast they talk when they're telling me about something that excites them and how wide their eyes open when describing something incredible they've seen or heard or done. There's nothing funnier than when they get ahead of themselves in their recounting of a story ... it's like being in a bounce house with a herd of kangaroos. I adore the look on my oldest granddaughter's face when she's in full-blown storytelling mode and I suddenly interrupt her and ask her to start from the beginning ... I call it the "Ghee are you kidding me? I just told you 11 hundred parts of the story and you want me to start over?" look. And when I try to explain the concept and importance of chronological order when it comes to telling a story ... well, suffice it to say that I rarely win her over to my way of thinking.

As I mentioned in last night's post, I have a ton of stories to share about my trip to Maine last week ... so many that I'm having a hard time choosing what to write about first. But on my way to work this morning, I decided that I should take my own advice that I give to Coraline and start at the beginning. At least that's where I'm starting tonight anyway ... I very well may change my mind tomorrow, but then again, I may not. I contemplated beginning this part of my Maine story by filling you in on the craziness of the night before I left or perhaps starting with my arrival at the KC airport in the wee hours of the morning. But that part of the story is neither exciting nor comical, so I've opted to begin with the adventure that was my first flight ... my shortish flight from Kansas City to Washington, D.C., that felt more like 20 hundred hours than the 3 hours it actually was.

Anyone who knows me knows that flying is not my favorite thing in the world to do, but I will say that I've gotten much, much, much better than I was 4 years ago when I got on a plane for the first time in 24 years. Oh, don't worry ... I still get plenty worked up, but now my panic revolves more around the actual trip itself (different airports, changing planes, delayed flights ... that sort of stuff) than my very much still there fear of flying. But as I settled into my seat near the back of the plane on the morning of February 13, I was actually feeling pretty good ... other than worrying like a banshee about being able to find my way to my next plane once we landed in D.C., of course. With my Sea-Band anti-nausea motion sickness bands snugly on each wrist and my faithful wiener dog Ollie cuddled in my lap, I pulled out the book I had brought along and began to read as the plane coasted down the runway in preparation for takeoff ... which, by the way, was the smoothest takeoff I've experienced thus far in all my travels. I remember thinking after the first hour or so in the air what a smooth and relaxing flight it was ... so smooth and relaxing that I read for a while, dozed for a while and chatted with the gentleman in the seat next to me for a while.

Thankfully, we were only about a half-hour out of Washington, D.C., when that smooth and relaxing flight suddenly went in a whole different direction. The pilot asked everyone to return to their seats and buckle up (including the flight attendants ... yeah, that's not unnerving at all when the pilot tells the flight attendants to sit down and buckle up) because we were heading into some rough air. Within a couple of minutes, the plane was rocking and shaking from side to side, and I was holding on to Ollie for dear life. I tried desperately to remember how I was supposed to breathe my way through an anxiety attack as I broke into a cold sweat and a sudden intense nausea washed through my gut. I must have looked like I was about to pass out ... and for a minute or two, I thought I might ... because the guy sitting next to me patted my knee and said, "Hang in there ... we'll be on the ground soon." I managed a muffled "Okay," and reached for the bag ... yes, THAT bag ... tucked in the flap on the seat in front of me.

Other than when the tornado sirens sound, I'm sure I've never been as panicked as I was when I opened the small paper bag and saw that it had a hole the size of a golf ball in the bottom of it. "Well that's not good," I mumbled ... "Well that's not good at all." I'm equally as sure that I've never appreciated the kindness of a stranger more than I did that day when the gentleman next to me quickly handed me the bag from the seatback in front of him. Obviously since I'm alive and well and penning tonight's post, the plane didn't crash and I survived the terrible turbulence ... abundantly embarrassed and humiliated for sure, but I survived. I even managed to walk off the plane under my own power and find my way to the nearest restroom to douse my face with cold water. Oh, and Ollie? He slept through most of the turbulence, but he was one unhappy wiener when I ... well ... when I ... lost my cookies in the small paper bag.

I know I'm probably the only person on the planet who would look for a deep, meaningful lesson within my puking in a bag on a plane ordeal, but you know me ... I'm always looking for that deep, meaningful lesson, hidden though it may be, and sometimes, if I'm really lucky, I actually find more than one. My barfing experience on the plane was about much more than recognizing that I should never ever sit in the back of a plane ... that experience was about being humbled ... it was about understanding that there are things in life I simply cannot control ... it was about admitting that there are times when I need to ask for help ... it was about finding the courage to climb onto another plane ... it was about drawing upon every ounce of strength within me and holding on as tightly as I can when the turbulence comes (not if it comes, but when it comes) ... it was about finding another bag when mine has a hole in it ... it was about knowing that the captain was doing everything he could to keep me and everyone else on the plane safe ... it was about not quitting. Puking into the small paper bag on the plane was about trusting ... it was about hoping ... it was about believing. And it was about doing all those things especially when I'm right smack dab in the middle of a great big old giant patch of rough air.

"Well that's not good ... that's not good at all."

Or is it?