Procrastination

      Today, I had a flight to San Diego that left at 9:20 am.  I am not a morning person. I also do not like to pack.  Forgetting the former and focusing on the later, I went to bed last night thinking I would get up early this morning and pack.  I set the alarm for 6:30.  I could not remember the last time I had gotten up that early.  Even more shocking was why, when the alarm went off at 6:30, I was surprised that I didn't get up. 

     After forcing my comatose body into the shower, I convinced myself  that I had enough time to read my e-mail before I packed.  This made perfect sense.  Suddenly it was 7:45.  I began to panic. I rationalized that since I lived only 15 minutes from the airport, I could leave my house at 8:00 and still make my flight.  A couple of e-mails later my panic returned.  I had to be out of the house in 5 minutes. I hustled my barely packed bags together, tossing in any last minute essential item I remembered at the moment which included, of course, my Aveda anti-humectant.  My hair could not survive without it.

     I rushed to my car, grabbing my garbage that I should have thrown out the night before, and swore to myself that I would never put things off again.  I knew this was a lie.   I jumped into my car, ready for my quick commute.  Nowhere in my rationalizing mind this morning did I ever consider the fact that 8:00 was prime rush hour time in Atlanta.  Until I hit gridlock.  Why me, I muttered under my breath, knowing the entire time that I only had myself to blame. 

     I made it to the airport parking lot.  Everything should have been all downhill from there.  I grabbed a bottle of Evian from my car and jammed it into my bag then jumped onto the nearest the shuttle bus.  I had been on the shuttle bus a million times and had never been stuck in traffic.  Until today.  The procrastination Gods were punishing me. 

     Arriving at my terminal, I quickly printed out my boarding pass. All I had to do was sail through the baggage drop.  Then I saw the tourists.  In front of me was a huge group of what looked like Canadian mountain me who had never been down off their mountain, much less at a curb-side check-in, with 10 bags each.  I waited patiently.  Finally someone called me to the counter.  It was 8:40.  I thought I could still make my flight with 40 minutes to spare.  Until the baggage handler informed me that I needed 45 minutes to check my bag.  I had been standing in the line behind mountain men longer than 5 minutes.  I was starting to lose it. 

     “Do you have any liquids in your bag ma’am”, he asked. 

     Of course I have liquids, I’m a girl, I yell inwardly while remaining calm exteriorly and affirmed to him that indeed I had liquids.  

     “Are they essential?” he asked.

     I am not a violent person, but I suddenly had the urge to grab him by his shirt collar and ask him what girl he knew had beauty products that were not essential. This was an oxymoron.  Instead, I maintained my composure, bit my tongue, and said in a pleasant although possibly tad sarcastic voice, “yes, of course”.  This might have been a mistake.  He directed me to the “lady in red” who could help me put my liquids in plastic bags. 

     “This is the only way you are going to make your flight” he added with a smirk.

      I must have really made his day.  I quickly surveyed the lady in red, who, although I’m sure was a perfectly nice lady, did not stir in me a sense of urgency or concern for me to make my flight.  I made a split-second decision to dart off on my own, deciding to take my chances with security.  My charm had to work with someone.  I went to first class check-in by mistake and they let me pass. My luck was changing!

     I asked the man at the end of the line about my dilemma and he said “surely they will be able to help you”.

     I was saved!  Confident and spry, I jaunted down the security line, took my travel kit with all my liquids out of my bag and put it in the bin.  I felt so clever. I had out-witted the system.  But wait!  My Aveda anti-humectant, I quickly remembered. I found it, shoved it into my plastic bag, and proudly strutted through the gate. 

     As I went through the scanner, I heard an authoritative voice behind me say, “Ma’am is this your bag?”

    No, it can’t be mine, I am too clever, I thought as I slowly looked over my shoulder towards the voice.  And….there…..she….was…..holding…..my….bag. 

     Feeling defeated, I hung my head and whispered in a tiny voice of surrender, “yes”.  It was over.  They had won.

    Then, a miracle happened.  I don’t know if she saw the defeat in my eyes and had sympathy on me, or I simply got lucky, but she did the quickest search ever and found my Evian! How could I have forgotten?  She took the sacred water, let me go, and I knew I was going to make it in spite of myself. 

     Knowing that, is there really any reason to change?