I have decided to start a blog, which is hardly groundbreaking considering that everyone has one. However, given my history with blogs some might consider this notion therapeutic or in my mother’s eyes, just plain ridiculous. As with any true commitment, I have carefully weighed the pros and cons and elected to say I do anyway. I have several reasons for doing so but perhaps the most selfish one is that it gives me something to do between the hours of 4 and 6 a.m. when my mind is racing and my body can no longer keep up.
I always plan big so my hope is that it will be funny and interesting and chalked full of great stories about whatever city I may find myself in that particular week. While I have no idea where this blog will take us, I most certainly know where it will not.
I am passionate about my politics and my career. I raise my hand and do solemnly swear that I am a political junkie and a workaholic. But I read far too much information during the countless hours I spend in the office about both subjects to consider writing about it as a true outlet and besides, there are plenty of those out there already. And not to worry, in an effort to protect those that didn’t sign up for this adventure, I will not name names. I mean, come on, who wants to have their life splashed all over the internet without their permission.
My mode of transportation
I am five feet, two inches and three fourths. If I stand up very tall and hold in my stomach just as my grandmother, Mary Frances, taught me, I can almost push 5’3, almost. However, thanks to the glories of the modern age I can be 5’6, 5’7 or even 5’8 if I am feeling very daring (and in the mood for a serious foot cramp). While this is not a blog about shoes, or even fashion for that matter, I really like both and regardless of where this blog finds me, I can assure you that it will find me in a pair of heels.
I know what you are thinking, how shallow. Oh no you don't. Everyone has their thing, be it video games, fishing, football or even a snuggie collection. We all have that place where we like to spend our hard earned money. Mine is shoes. I am OK with it. You should be too and thanks to Carrie Bradshaw, Manolo is now a household name.
This week’s trek
My high heels are taking me places but sometimes they need a little assistance. Quite often that assistance comes in the form of a 747. My dear friend Amy can attest that I could write a very good book on my adventures on airplanes but I suppose I have opted for a blog instead.
Recently I was flying to Washington, DC for meetings. I had been pushing a few weeks of fairly crazy hours but I felt in control and considering that I spend at least one day a week on an airplane, have come to understand that general exhaustion is just part of the game. Somehow between conference calls beginning at 6 a.m. and throwing my things into a bag to run to a waiting taxi with a loud horn (in high heels, mind you), I missed breakfast. While I planned to stop upon arrival at the airport, traffic had another idea and I ended up boarding my flight with only seconds to spare. Row 8, seat B. Ugh, I hate the middle but given my tardiness I suppose that beggars can’t be choosers.
By the time I sat down, my head was spinning. No breakfast. No lunch. No sleep. I shoved my two carry-ons under my seat and the second we were airborne, promptly pushed back my chair for some desperately needed rest. About an hour later I woke up to find myself in a cold sweat. While I may do plenty of sweating on the Katy Trail, I do not sweat in public and certainly not on a freezing aircraft. The very grumpy gentleman next to me took one look at my frazzled state and promptly scooted the other way. Thank you, kind sir for your assistance. I tried to lay back but then felt as though the plane might be doing flips. I leaned forward to open my air vent, dodging the daggers being shot from the seat next to me and promptly passed out – IN.HIS.LAP.
After what felt like a quick nap and a hard hit over the head, I opened my eyes to find three unfamiliar faces (including the now grumpier gentleman) staring at me as I was sprawled across the aisle of the airplane. I was horrified. It was one of those moments where you are trying to recover quickly and just praying that not everyone has noticed the embarrassing display taking place – to you. At precisely this moment, I heard the crackling of the overhead announcer. My first thought was oh good, we are almost to DC, and I will just pop back in my seat before anyone else notices my state of affairs. And then I hear this, “Ladies and gentleman, there is a young lady in row 8, seat B that has passed out, is there a doctor or nurse on this plane?” And so much for going unnoticed. I didn’t even have the energy to protest the “young lady” reference.
A very sweet nurse with bright red curls ran forward to assist with my plight. She took one look at me and explained that she was on a cruise to meet her sister Tammy and did I think I might have swine flu because that would be really bad. Did I mention that she was a loud talker? So not only does the entire plane now know that I passed out, they also think I have swine flu. Fabulous. As those around me started pulling out tissues to cover their mouths, I attempted to feebly explain that I was hungry and exhausted and no, I was certain it was not Swine Flu.
When I finally got seated back in row 8, seat B, the sweet nurse offered to switch seats with someone in my row to assist me for the remainder of the flight. The man next to me couldn’t raise his hand fast enough. She then offered a crumpled granola bar from her purse to which the flight attendant responded immediately with a cup of apple juice. I abhor fruit juice but given the generosity and the stares, I felt obligated to partake.
The moment the juice hit my stomach, I knew it was a bad idea. I reached in front of me for the air sickness bag, which I never in a million years, imagined touching, let alone using while in flight. But, it wasn’t there. Watching my every move, the nurse yells across the plane “She’s gonna throw up. Somebody get her a barf bag.” At this moment, I am dying. All I can think is why is this is happening to me. On any given day, under any amount of pressure, I am cool, calm and collected, but no, today I am sweaty, and shaking and throwing up for the entire plane to see.
Amazingly after getting sick, I started to feel a little better and FINALLY we got the alert to prepare for landing. I know the drill, seat back up, tray table is stowed. I started counting the seconds left on the plane. The moment we hit the ground, I breathed a sigh of relief and quickly composed a plan to get off the plane as fast as possible.
The moment I started to relax, I heard, “Ladies and gentleman, if you can please keep your seat, a woman in row 8, seat B has become very ill and the paramedics will be boarding the plane.” Umm, what??? No one mentioned anything about paramedics. I am tired for goodness sakes and considering that the whole plane is aware of my predicament I would like to avoid notifying everyone at Washington Reagan.
And then it happens, three very anxious looking paramedics board my flight with a wheel chair and a stretcher. Just in case I am unconscious or perhaps near death. They have oxygen and tubes and even a kit to take my blood. After a brief but terse discussion, I am permitted to walk off the plane on my own and I exit to a shallow applause in first class, 234 pair of eyes and a dirty look from my former neighbor in row 8.
Thinking that we are heading to a back room so that they can check me out and send me on my way, I keep walking. But oh no. We stop immediately to the right of the gate and they start a full exam, in the middle of the airport terminal. I felt like a caged animal at the zoo. Those from my flight stared in horror as they exited the plane. I was poked and prodded and finally diagnosed with low blood sugar and exhaustion. Go figure. Now that we all know I am not dying, despite the fact that I may want to, I gathered my bags and hurried to leave.
As I stumbled to baggage claim feeling completely defeated, the paramedic smiled back at me and said, “Well, at least you had on nice shoes.”
