Thiry-Three

My brother kept this quote posted in his old apartment in California, on the inside of his front door.  It was always the very last thing you would see when leaving his house.

"On the plains of hesitation lie the blackened bones of countless millions who at the dawn of victory lay down to rest, and in resting died."

I liked it so much I copied it down in one of my notebooks late one night, then copied it down again once I was back in my office.  It sits now, on a lined piece of notebook paper, taped to my monitor at work.  I look at it daily, forcing myself to read, to pay attention to the words.   

******  

About a week ago I was in a yoga class.  We were working on a newer pose, one I'd only tried once or twice before.  As I worked, twisting, bending, and contorting my right leg, all the while trying to maintain my balance on my left leg, the instructor came over to reposition me slightly.  "You've got it in you, Kelli" she said, in reference to my attempted pose.  "You're just not quite sure where you're going."

******

 I'm not quite sure she even realized how applicable that statement can be at certain times in my life.  Yoga poses...and beyond.

******

At this point, I have been 33 for 5 days of my life.  While this birthday snuck up on me in the fashion that all birthdays tend to as of late (seriously, 32.  Where did you go? ) I've also been busy giving 33 a lot of thought over the few weeks leading up to its arrival.  I mean, 33.  I stress that number in a good sense - what a gift these 33+ years have been, but I also say it in a sort of dumb-founded, how did I ever even get to be this age sort of sense.  Because none of us ever think we're really the age we are, right?  For me, even in college and those first early years of struggling through my twenties after school, I was never truly able to imagine my life beyond 26 or so.  And yet, here I am.  And oh, so glad for it.  There have been a few very sudden, very recent, very unexpected reminders in my world lately of just how precious and fleeting life is, of how quickly and how instantaneously things can change.  

There is a part of me that wonders at times if I'm truly where I'm supposed to be in life, if all of the decisions I have made throughout these 33 years of mine have led me to the right place, if I've been making the best, the right decisions. There are moments when I forget to be gentle with myself, to remember that all of the decisions I've made have been to the very best of my abilities, that I, too, (shocker) am only human.  A 33 year old human, who somehow, so far, has managed to carve out a content, lovely little life for herself, filled with so very many things to be grateful for.  Birthdays can be a good reminder for these sorts of things, I find.  They're a chance to reset our internal clocks to a "new year" for just us; an opportunity to reset our mindset, our internal clocks, to plan anew.   

******

Earlier this year, a new found friend and I vowed to stop wasting time.  Oh you know how easy it is - to take these days for granted, to always count on a tomorrow, to "get to it later."  She and I made a pact of sorts, a pact of doing it now, of not always counting on all those weeks, months, and years we think we might have ahead of us. 

I am making 33 - MY very own 33rd year - about using my time, my days to the very best of my ability.  We're less than a week in, but I find this revived mindset utterly refreshing.  Because really. What are we all waiting for?  

******

The first time I realized that I could actually travel to Australia one day - a country that has always held a bit of a fascination in my mind - was when I was 16.  I was visiting an older family friend down in Georgia, during the 1996 Olympic Games and we were wandering around a bookstore together.  We stumbled upon a coffee table book about Australia, my friend picked it up and thumbed through the pages.  "I want to go to Australia," she said, sighing. "Wouldn't it be amazing just to wander around there on a trip?"  I nodded in agreement. She sighed again.  "But, I'm not sure if I'll ever make that trip.  Maybe someday."

As far as I know, she has still never been to Australia.

I thought about going Down Under when my work visa in the U.K. wore out many years ago, considered extended my backpacking lifestyle to the other side of the globe directly from Europe.  But, then, reality got the best of me.  That, and my traveling funds were severely diminished.  So to the back burner it was for Australia, where she has sat patiently for years upon years.

I'm not quite sure why the sudden renewed interest, beyond the simple fact that I just think it is time.  It is time for me to travel (literally) to the other side of the world.  It is time for me to see Australia.  I have no plane ticket, I have no travel dates set, I have no solid, firmed up plans for this trip just yet.  But I am doing my research and my homework.  I am laying the groundwork. I am reaching out to my Aussie friends who live there, I am reading heaps about the country.  And I have the utmost intent that this trip will happen, at 33, in 2013.  

Because I will not waste these precious days.  No sir. I intend - I resolve - to soak them up, drink them down, and cherish all of them - even the lousy ones when we sort of wish we'd just stayed in bed - because they're all, totally and completely, ours.

For what big plans are ahead of us, my friends!  And we all have so very much to celebrate. 

“We shall never have more time. We have, and have always had, all the time there is. No object is served in waiting until next week or even until tomorrow. Keep going day in and day out. Concentrate on something useful. Having decided to achieve a task, achieve it at all costs.”

Arnold Bennett

Because Summer isn't Over 'til the Calendar says it's Over...

Well.  I've had a pretty busy summer.  Before we go any further, let's go ahead and acknowledge the fact that I'm talking about summer in the present tense.  Know why?  Because it is still. freaking. summer.

(What?  You've put a small soapbox in front of me?  Oh, how kind.  Why, I don't mind if I do step up there for the briefest of minutes, at all actually.  Ahem.  Summer goes from 6/21-9/21.  Just like every other season on this lovely planet we call home, it gets 3 solid months.  Yes, when I was a kid and I had to go back to school after Labor Day, I felt like the summer was over.  And it made me very, very sad.  But now?  Now that I'm a full-fledged, card carrying member of the adult community?  I get to acknowledge the fact - particularly as I now work year 'round without that cherished summer vacation - that summer does not end until the day after my birthday.  (Ahem, again, for those just tuning in - 9/22 would be the Autumnal Equinox.)  I know people love the fall.  I get it.  But for some reason, summer is always rob of it's due time.  You know hear people rushing into winter, do you?  No.  But there's always that person - IN AUGUST - who is cheerfully talking about Ocktoberfest beer.  This just kills me.)

Ok.  I'll give you back that soapbox now.  Thanks.

(Also, I am allowed to talk a bit of smack about those people who get excited about Ocktoberfest in August because my brother is one of them. *As she shakes her head sadly.*  Sometimes, it's like I don't even know him anymore.)

Anyway!  Where was I?

The summer!  My brother!  A heck of a lot of overdue photos in this post!  Right.

So my brother and his girlfriend came to visit over Labor Day weekend, flying all the way out from San Diego, just to get a good dose of Dunkin Donuts coffee.  (My brother was really excited about the return to the East Coast and the land of Coffee Coolattas.)

Since they were in town for a good chunk of days, we decided to do more than just sit around sipping coffee and eating donuts.  We drove up to Maine one day, crossing off another state entirely for Stephen's CA born and bred girlfriend, and another little port for my brother.

 Obviously, we ate lobster.
Ahem, I mean, lobstah.

Once back in the city, we played tourist for a good number of days.  Checking out The Paul Revere House - I can't be the only one who had this song in my head the entire time we were touring the spot, can I?

 From there we wandered over to The Old North Church, home of the famous "One if By Land, Two if By Sea" signal we all learned during our history lessons on The Revolutionary War.
(If I may, here.  This is the sort of thing that rather boggles my mind about living in Boston.  Throughout my childhood, in every history class, I heard the story of Paul Revere's Midnight Ride and the famous lantern signals.  Not growing up near Boston, I never toured this area as a child or as part of a school field trip. So now, to be an adult, seeing the actual spot where all of this history took place?  Well, the history loving geek in me thinks it's really, really cool.  That's all.)

 We hit up Faneuil Hall of course, clearly opting to take the most serious picture we could with the Samuel Adams statue.

 

I suggested a duck tour at one point, thinking it'd be a nice way for my two guests to get an overview of the city.  I'd been on one once before - years and years (and years) - ago myself.  They're not exactly the type of thing you spend your Saturday doing if you actually live here, but let me tell you.  They are really flippin' fun.  And I learned all sorts of fun facts to impress my next set of guests with. 

(I think it's only fair to point out how well I coordinated my outfit with our duck boat.  It's like I just knew we'd get the turquouise boat when I got up that morning.)

 

 Unfortunately, the Sox were on the road while my brother and Mary were in town, but I still managed to get my brother into Fenway Park - for the first time in his life - on a tour.  You guys know how I feel about Fenway Park, so I can pretty much go ahead and say that touring this 100 year old ballpark with my one and only brother was one of my favorite moments of the trip.

 They left way too soon - just as I was really whipping out my tour guide guns - but oh I'm so glad they were able to make the trip at all. I find it's a nice treat to play tourist in your own town once in awhile.  It serves as a nice reminder of what a cool spot you live in.

***

Since I'm clearly on a photo kick with this blog post, and I am recapping a few recent SUMMER events, I might as well tell you what I did last weekend.

I went apple picking.

 

For the first time in my life.

How I made it 32 years without picking an apple is completely beyond me.  I mean, I literally grew up with multiple "pick your own" farms a mile from my house.  Finally, finally (!) this past Sunday I went with two of my favorite friends who have an adorable little boy who is not quite two.  It was his first time apple picking as well.  With a 30 year gap between us, clearly he and I are bonded for life.  (I'd go so far as to say this guarantees me an invite to his wedding one day in the distant future...but we'll let him decide.)   

After the initial picking, my friend and I wandered the rows of apples, deciding which varieties we'd like to take home.  "So, what'd you think of apple picking?" she asked.  I smiled, sort of shrugged my shoulders.  "It's fun," I said.  "I mean, it's great.  It's just...I always thought there was so much more to it, you know?  In the movies there's all this big to do - barrels, ladders, wooly sweaters, days and days of harvesting..." 

She laughed and nodded.  "It's kind of like sex.  Still fun.  But nothing like how it's portrayed in the movies."

And this is why I love her.

Now.  There are technically two full days of summer left.  Get out there and enjoy it, would ya?

Couch to 5K

I am not a runner.

There have been several times in my life when I decide I want to be a runner.  I envy the people I see taking their evening or morning jogs; all of them calm, composed and fluid.  I watch them as I walk to or from work, knowing that during any of my jogging attempts I have looked the exact opposite - limbs flailing, red in the face, huffing and puffing, easily defeated.

My attempts at becoming a runner are always short-lived.  I usually lose the motivation, the energy, as quickly as it arrived.  Often, instead of finding myself in a 'head-clearing place' on my runs, all I can think to myself, during every foot-pounding the pavement moment is: 'when can this God-forsaken torture end?'  "The hump," is what my running friends tell me.  "Just get over the hump and you'll love it."  

Ahem.

Hasn't happened yet.

But suddenly, amazingly, shockingly, I have hope that one day - one day soon - it just might.  I'd heard about the couch-to-5K program earlier this summer when a friend brought it up after listening to me complain about my lack of running skills for the umpteenth time.  I looked it up online, realizing that maybe that was my issue - I'd just never really been taught how to become a runner.  So, I checked out the website, thought the method sounded easy enough...and then promptly dismissed it.  

But you guys.  Just last week I learned that this program is an app as well!  Only one run in, I realize it is very early for me to say all that I am about to say.  Add to it the fact that right now, the weather is perfect for jogging in these parts of New England and lately I've been motivated to stay outside as much as possible, fully aware that cooler days and nights are not too far off.  Still, I swear, this app?  It is going to change my running life.  For $2, you download the program.  Then you are greeted by a countdown clock and a "trainer."  They lay out the work-out plan, explaining each part of the program, allowing you to keep track of your minutes averaged by mile, letting you record how you feel at the end of each work-out.  You can pull in your own musical playlist and finally when you're ready to let feet hit the pavement, the clock starts ticking.  After five minutes of a warm-up walk, your little trainer speaks up and says "Let's Jog!"  And so you jog, for the one minute countdown.  Then, that little trainer - who is not nearly as annoying as I would have guessed - comes back and says "brisk walk."  So, you walk briskly for a minute.  Then you jog again, etc. etc. etc.  I've never been one to jog to music before, but I have to say, it's helpful.  It's also extremely helpful to have an app keeping track of my running times instead of trying to count city blocks in my head.  

Seriously.  Who knew the power of a count-down clock?    

I realize as I type this that any true runners reading this are probably rolling their eyes.  And I probably look a little ridiculous weaving up and down the streets of my neighborhood running one minute, walking the next, and then running again.  But to that I say, whatever.  Because on Sunday night I used this program for the first time.  And for the first time in my life I really. finished. an entire run - instead of just letting myself stop after a few blocks.  Even better than finishing the run?  I really enjoyed it!  Like, couldn't wait until the next night I was free to do my "Week 1, Work Out #2" part of the running program, enjoyed it.  

If you're a born runner then this post probably won't mean anything to you.  But for those of you that are like me, all bundled up with grand running intentions but have a difficult time executing?  Here are the magic words, the ones that should give you hope about your own case, the ones that give ME hope about my own fitness goals.  For the very first time in any part of my "jogging career" I suddenly feel like I have this goal; one I genuinely feel is attainable.  

To run.

A Gift

"I watch them climb into Kenny's restored Camaro.  They'll probably stop for lunch at TGI Friday's and talk about me in deeply sympathetic tones.  Then they'll pull onto the interstate, crank up the classic rock, and resume their lives.  It's quite likely that I will never see either one of them again, and the thought saddens me.  They were daily fixtures in my life for the last seven years or so, and now they are gone.  Or, more accurately, I am. Just like that.  That's the thing about life; everything feels so permanent, but you can disappear in an instant."

-Jonathan Tropper- This is Where I Leave You 
 

******

September is one of my favorite months.  It's my birthday month of course, and as a kid, as much as I hated the idea of leaving lazy, long, hot summer days behind, I also always sort of looked forward to the start of a new school year, new activities.  The weather is almost always gorgeous during this month, and I love the crisp blue sky that seems to arrive the minute the calendar switches from August over to September.

Of course, I also have a bit of an internal struggle with this month, as I loathe seeing summer loosen her grip on the days, I have a hard time watching the leaves change from their luscious green of July and August to their darker greens, knowing their colorful autumnal display isn't too far behind.  It breaks my heart a bit every year when fall arrives, and I'm not quite sure why.  I find it a nostalgic, melancholy sort of season, I guess, and I often find myself looking back over my shoulder longingly at the heat of the previous months, desperate and longing to keep wearing my flip-flops, crazy and hopeful to keep the windows open and the beach days continuing, even just a little bit longer.

 ******

Today, I have been thinking.

Thinking seems to be something I do often these days, wondering what my next move in life may be, imagining where I might be headed next, deciding what sort of pieces of my life will evolve; determining which way I want them to move.  September seems to be a good month for this, a time when a lot of us re-set our paths, our focus, our plans.

Today in particular is a good day for reflection, a necessary one, now 11 years after the fact.  For these years have always seem divided to me - the befores - the days and years of September 10ths and then, September 11, 2001, and all of the days after. 

 ******

Blame it on this forth-coming change of seasons or the fact that after a very busy summer my days are slowing down, my calendar not quite as jam-packed; maybe it's the recent full moon, maybe there's just something in the air, but lately I've found myself feeling particularly restless, looking, searching, peering toward some unseen horizon, wondering what - at time frustratingly so - what. comes. next?  Surely there is something ahead, something great and just and true,  right around the bend, right?  But what is it? What do I want it to be?  How do I make it mine?  Which leap do I take?  Which decisions are the right ones?  There are things in my life that I thought were guarantees, things I figured would right and sort themselves out if I followed the "rules" and paid attention; if I dotted my i's and crossed my t's just so.  Lately I'm finding that that's not necessarily the truth, that there are no givens, hardly any sure things left in the world.  Of course this isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it is a reminder, a push, a decision in and of itself, as it is up to me to chart my course, to sort out which paths are the best ones to follow, which road, which steps I need to take for myself, by myself.

******

On days like today, days that dawn crisp and blue and cool, days that feel just like that September 11th day did in 2001, I have to stop.  I have to pause.  For even as I do something as mundane as stand in line for my morning cup of coffee, fishing into my wallet for loose change, I have a moment as clarifying and as true as one could ever hope for - I am so very lucky.  Truly, how very fortunate that I am even given these sorts of mundane moments, that I have been given the sort of life where I am lulled into thinking it will last forever, that there will always be another morning for a cup of coffee, there will always be my standard commute into work on the T, that these days will continue always.  What a luxury!  To imagine there will always be more time, what an easy trap we can fall into with each of these precious, beautiful days we are given.  For the truth is they are just as fleeting for me, for you, as they are for any of us.

I guess what I am saying is this: today, on 9.11.11, I took a minute to remember, I took a second to pause, I stopped for a moment to think, to be aware.  For I am so very, very glad to be here.         

 

August Reads

Let's not linger on the fact that during the past few summer months I've only been banging out one book for the entire month.  The days!  The gorgeous, hot, lazy days of summer have...um, clearly been filled up with other activities beyond the book.  This, I have learned is how New England works.  You run around like a mad-woman, planning a million and one fun events for the sunny, warm months.  And then, when the weather turns and everyone begins to hibernate....well, you read.

The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck

At the tail end of July, I went up to New Hampshire to spend a weekend at a camp a friend of mine runs.  (See? Fun weekend activities.  But I digress.)  Friday night, she and I were sitting in her cabin, catching up.  "What are you reading these days?" she asked.

"The Grapes of Wrath," I replied.  "How about you?"

She laughed.  "Uh, Fifty Shades of Grey."

I joined in her laughter.  "The rest of America is reading Fifty Shades of Grey and I'm the girl on the T carrying a classic published in the 1930's."

Seriously though, I've had The Grapes of Wrath on my to-read list for ages.  Somehow I made it through all of my years of formal schooling without reading it and when I got around to picking my next read at the end of July, something told me, now was the time.  Truly, I'm glad I waited until age 32 to read this book as I guarantee I would have missed about 8 million references had I initially read it in college - and would've likely missed 15 million had I been in high school reading it for the first time.  Reading it in this technologically advanced era we find ourselves in these days intrigued me as well, particularly as Steinbeck wrote it during another type of advance - as tractors,  machines, and banks moved tenant farmers off of the land, forcing thousands and thousands of families to head West in search of work.

It's a long book, with my copy coming in around the 600 page mark, but it's absolutely worth it.  I found the story captivating and heartbreaking and I fell in love the Joad family as they struggled to make their way from Oklahoma to California.  Steinbeck knew how to weave a story, understood how to develop characters, and in the end, created a novel that will stay with me for years to come.  The Grapes of Wrath has easily moved into my top ten list and it's a story I imagine I will find myself thinking of often, for many years ahead.  There is a reason it's considered one of the great American novels, after all.

"He loved the land no more than the bank loved the land. He could admire the tractor – its machined surfaces, its surge of power, the roar of its detonating cylinders; but it was not his tractor. Behind the tractor rolled the shining disks, cutting the earth with blades – not plowing but surgery … The driver sat in his iron seat and he was proud of the straight lines he did not will, proud of the tractor he did not own or love, proud of the power he could not control. And when that crop grew, and was harvested, no man had crumbled a hot clod in his fingers and let the earth sift past his fingertips. No man had touched the seed, or lusted for the growth. Men ate what they had not raised, had no connection with the bread. The land bore under iron, and under iron gradually died; for it was not loved or hated, it had no prayers or curses.”

On a Wing and a Prayer

Last week I was out in Ohio for work.  I flew in and out of Dayton for this trip, forgoing my usual direct flight into Cincinatti because of - what else during these days of seemingly never-ending economic turmoil? - the bottom line.  When I'd arranged my flights earlier in the summer, my boss had warned me that traffic can get a bit heavy around Dayton.  So, when I landed in the late afternoon on a balmy Tuesday in August, I was prepared.  And then I promptly sailed directly to my hotel, taking in the beautiful farmlands of Ohio that I enjoy so much as I drove in my rather comfortable silver rental car, not once hitting a single traffic issue.

Now, granted.  Maybe I should have left a tad earlier than I did from our Ohio offices for my return, but really, seeing as it only took me 20 minutes to make the trip - at the same exact time of day - two days earlier, I didn't think allowing myself a solid 45 minutes to get up to the airport was really that crazy.  I mean, I planned for what I thought would be a worse case scenario - doubling my travel time.

You can probably guess where this story is headed.  About 10 miles away from the quiet little Dayton airport, I hit traffic.  Insane traffic.  Not moving at all traffic.  I was non pulsed at first.  I'd planned for this!  I had plenty of time!  Tom Petty was on the radio!  No worries! I can just sit back and listen while I sit in grid-lock.  10 minutes passed.  15.  At the 20 minute mark, I started to stress a bit.  I'd only moved four feet!  I texted my one of my co-workers, my favorite working companion in the Ohio office.  He replied, optimistic: "You've still got plenty of time.  You'll make it." he promised me.  I took a deep breath.  30 minutes.  Still stuck in a stand-still.

There are a lot of frustrating things we all have to deal with in this world, but I find being forced to just sit still in a clock is ticking down and there is nothing - absolutely nothing - you can do about it situation to be one of the worst.  Even if I had been able to maneuver my way to an exit off of the highway, I was too close to the airport to even locate an alternative route.  75 North was where I was staying, like it or not.  So I sat.  And sat.  The radio began to annoy me, rattling my nerves even further, so I shut if off.

Too quiet.         

I turned it back on.  U2's "It's a Beautiful Day."

Really?  Really, Bono?  This is what you're giving me?  Right now, I would argue that it is not a beautiful day.  Radio goes back off.  I stole another glance at the clock.  Another minute had passed.  I thought time was supposed to slow down in these sorts of situations?  Why in the world did it feel like these minutes were clicking by at a lightening fast pace?

My flight departed Dayton at 4:32pm.  It was 3:52pm.  I was, according to the GPS on my phone, fifteen minutes away.  And...here begins the talking out loud to myself, gripping the steering wheel like a maniac portion of my trip.  I texted my co-worker again.  "I haven't moved." I told him.  "Uh oh." was his reply, quickly followed by another message asking for my flight numbers so he could try and rebook my trip.

Because, oh, remember?  I have a connector to make.  Through Baltimore.  Of course I do.

By now, I've moved a mile.  I reply, asking him what the next flight through BWI is.  I've got a long lay-over in Baltimore, so try and calm myself down by reminding myself that there's at least some potential for wiggle room.  Minutes tick by with no response from my co-worker, I continue to creep forward.  I'm moving!  I'm going 20 miles per hour, but I'm moving.  My phone vibrates; a new message: "There aren't any other flights to BWI tonight."

I reply, a single, cursory, word; one you don't utter around parents or children.  I'll let you guess what I said.  (Hint - it rhymes with duck.)

And then finally, I'm moving.  Like 50 miles per hour, moving.  I am talking to myself, announcing every exit I pass, watching for the airport highway.  I'm commenting about each car I'm passing, wondering out loud about how ironical it would be if I ended up getting pulled over now that I'm speeding.  It's 4pm.  I'm pulling into the airport parking lot - because, yes, that's right, I still have to drop. off. the. rental. car.  Barely sliding the thing into park, I hop out of the car, grabbing my purse and my laptop from the backseat.  I'm reaching in the trunk for my luggage with the guy with National - the check out guy - saunters over in the typical friendly Ohioan way.  "I am sorry to be rude, but my flight leaves in 30 minutes!" I tell him, boarding on hysterics.  "All I need to do is print this receipt for you and you're good," he explains.  Taping the hand held electronic machine, as if that will make it print faster.  I snatch it from his hand, yell a thank you, and scurry into the airport.  It is 4:09pm.

I don't have my boarding pass yet.

I run over to AirTran's self-service kiosk, harried, frazzled, and desperately trying to pull out my credit card.  You know how these things go, of course.  The more you rush, the more difficult the most simplest of tasks become.  An AirTran clerk calls out to me from behind her computer: "What's your final destination today?"

"Uh, Boston." I cry.  Christ, I think to myself.  I'm becoming too frazzled to even remember where I'm flying.

"Via Baltimore?" she asks, her left eyebrow raised.

"Yes!"

"You're running really late."

"No shit.  I know!  I know!"

(Ahem.  Let me just take a quick aside and tell you that I rarely ever - if I have ever - uttered a curse word at someone in the service industry, particularly one that was trying to help me, especially one that could easily have the TSA grab me and toss me into a dark room never to be heard from again.  But really, lady?  Really?  You don't think I am WELL AWARE of the fact that my flight leaves in exactly 23 minutes and I haven't even made it through security yet?  Come on.)

She hands me my boarding passes, I grab my carry on luggage, wallet flying, laptop in hand and hop in the security line.  There are five people in front of me.  And guess who is having a nice long chat with the family that's currently having their passports and boarding passes reviewed?  The TSA agent.  It's when I hear him ask, "Oh, you're originally from Australia?  What's the weather like down there this time of year?" that I begin pacing.  I'd been holding out hope up until this point, but the minute I heard ol' chatty TSA man, I knew I was doomed.  The guy standing in front of me turned his head toward me, probably on the alert that there was a crazed 30-something muttering to herself behind him.  "I'm going to miss my flight," I told him.  "It leaves in less than 20 minutes."  A young man standing at the top of the line, the one that would've been next if the TSA agent wasn't STILL talking about Australia (I mean, I really, really want to go there too but there's a time and a place you know?) asked if I wanted to go ahead of him.

I scurried forward.  "Oh, I do. I do.  Thank you so, so much."

I ran over to the ONE security line they had open, threw my shoes, my laptop, my luggage, my 3oz liquids, and my purse onto the conveyor belt.  And that's when I heard it over the load speaker.  "This will be a final boarding call for Flight #341 into Baltimore."  I pointed to the ceiling, looked for the nearest TSA agent.  "That's my flight!" 

Without missing a beat she replied: "Step into the security chamber, stand for 10 seconds." 

Any idea how long 10 seconds feels in moments like these?  It's almost unbearable.  Onto the other side of security, where I scrambled to slide my shoes on, shove my laptop into my bag, and repackage everything else I'd had to spill onto the belt, I heard something even worse than a final boarding call over the loudspeaker.  My name.  They were paging me, over the loudspeaker, mispronouncing my last name over and over and over.

I looked down at my boarding pass for the first time.  Gate 24C.  Guess where Gate 24C is?  At the top of the escalators?  Like maybe they'd started the furthest gate number at 1 and worked backwards? Of course not.  It was the very last gate, down a very, very, long hallway, which lead down another very, very long hallway.

And so I ran.  In flip-flops.  I passed people left and right, I heard one guy yell "you'll make it!" in my wake.  I thought of the Olympic sprinters I'd just watched on television with my father a few weeks earlier, recalled commenting about how easy they made those sprints look. Ha.  This was not easy.   

Finally, I saw it.  Just as I was hearing my name called yet again over the loudspeakers.  I waved my one free arm, yelled to the man by the door.  "I'm coming! I'm coming!"

"Are you Kelli?" he called.

"Yes!  It's me!  I'm here!"

"Okay, you made it.  You can walk.  It's okay.  You're gonna make it."

Just like that I stopped running, and started panting.  "I am so sorry." I stammered when I got to the gate.  AirTran guy smiled.  "It's all good." he said, gesturing me to head through the gate.  He didn't even swipe my boarding pass.

Of course, I was the last one on the plane and of course my seat was all the way in the back.  So I did a different sort of walk of shame, one that involved huffing, puffing, and knowing that everyone sitting in their seats was mentally rolling their eyes at me and my carry-on luggage as I bumped into almost every armrest moving down the isle.  Finally, finally, I reached seat 30A, slid my suitcase above me, and collapsed into my seat.  An airline attendant walked past, surely doing their final check before the plane can back away from the gate.  "Could I please have a glass of water?" I asked her.

She nodded and obliged. I imagine it took me a good twenty minutes in the air to regain my composure, to feel my heart beat drop back to the norm.  But I had made it.  Somehow, somewhere, my travel guardian angel was looking out for me.  And man, that glass of water I sipped at 30,000 feet?  Nothing had ever tasted as good.