Losing my mind. And my flight.

by Katie on April 2, 2012

I made a visit to Texas a few weeks ago. Where I apparently lost my ever-loving mind.

Grandma Mary (Brandon’s grandma) is always telling me, “Just wait until you’re old,” when recounting something silly she has done recently. And I tell her the thought scares me half to death because most of the stories she uses to back up this theory I already experience. Pre-thirty. I do not take that as a good sign.

And after this little tale, I’m really scared.

So, Texas.

I had booked an evening flight, which seemed like a grand idea at the time. It gave me a full day with the family, and with the time change, put me back in Arizona at a decent hour for the person picking me up and would have me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed ready to catch up on work the next morning. It seemed perfect.

I ran around with the baby brothers that day, visiting grandparents and other family. We went home in the late afternoon to the parents making a Texas-sized chicken fried steak supper, and they all asked what time I needed to leave for the airport. I told them. It was even half an hour earlier than I would normally leave for a flight. I was playing it safe.

Before supper was ready, I went upstairs and gathered all my things, placed them right by the door, with the boarding pass I had printed that morning on top. I proceeded to enjoy the last couple of hours with my family, resting comfortably in the fact that, literally, all I had to do at the time of departure was walk out the door, picking up my bags along the way.

After our meal, we were just chatting it up, and someone once again brought up when we needed to leave, as it was approaching. I brushed aside their concerns, and changed the subject.

And then, mid-sentence, I began hyperventilating.

I don’t know what registered, but something clicked, and I realized I had been telling them what time I needed to BE at the airport. Not what time I needed to LEAVE for the airport.


How ridiculous is that?

And the hyperventilating? I was not exaggerating. I really could not catch my breath. My mom kept telling me I was going to pass out if I didn’t get it together. My brothers threw my bags in the truck, somehow I managed to navigate my way there, and off we went.

My breathing eventually got under control, but not my thought process. I just kept seeing all the benjamin franklins it was going to cost me to get home if I missed my flight, the mountain of work I had waiting for me, and the disappointment of my husband.

I was a mess.

But the clock was telling us we still had a chance to make it.

Then, the very worst thing happened.

Traffic. I-10 was at a dead stop. My dad did something he never does and pulled off the freeway. But after inching up some initially, the feeder road was stopped as well. Then something happened, and the freeway was instantly moving again. We, however, were not. With every passing car, I watched my hopes of making my flight slip farther away.

I eventually regained the capacity to talk and enough sense to call Southwest Airlines regarding my predicament. I mentioned the traffic. I failed to mention confusing my airport departure and arrival times.

Luckily, I found out that Southwest automatically, for no charge, bumps you to the next flight if you miss yours but arrive within an hour of your departure time. Which improved my spirits some.

Then came the dreaded moment of telling Brandon what was going on. My palms were sweaty, my heart racing, as I typed out my message.

His response?


More followed later, but in short, he could have really cared less. It was a bit inconvenient for him regarding work the next day, but he has more of a “what are you going to do about it now?” attitude about these things.

Later in the trip, when we had abandoned all hope of getting to the airport on time but were still en route to retrieve my new flight, my dad asked how Brandon took the news.

“Fine,” I said, “He doesn’t even care. He doesn’t worry and obsess over things like this like I do. But, it’s good one of us is able to have a level head in these situations.”

And my dad laughed. And offered up these dreaded words (to every daughter in America, I’m sure), “Oooohh, you are more like your mother than you’ll ever believe.”

My punishment for temporarily losing my mind?

A layover in Tulsa. On the way from Houston to Phoenix.



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