What Makes Me Laugh

I’m leaving for Tennessee tomorrow for what may be my final appearance ever as a bridesmaid or bridesmatron (I know, you’re drying your eyes right now, aren’t you?). I expect to experience both culture and culture shock in the South, and hope I don’t get lost (I’m getting a handy GPS unit for my car just in case).

Doug is not traveling with me this time, which makes me both sad and relieved for him that he won’t have to experience any of the new airline security measures (including a ban on bathrooms and anything in your lap). Hopefully I won’t have to experience them either since I’m only traveling domestic flights.

I’m planning to stay calm, cool, and collected while flying, even if I have to grab the stranger’s hand sitting next to me upon takeoff. Keeping the bride calm is also one of my duties (as noted in the final instructions sent by the bride last eve). I plan to keep on reminding her that fortunately I’m not helping her prep for a spinal tap or a terrorist attack. It’s only a wedding!

Meanwhile, I’m going to summon my inner Southern Belle and my inner Buddha (is it possible for both to reside in the same body?) and try to keep calm as I deliver a toast, wear a dress that is slightly too tight for breathing, and wear heels while nursing a knee injury from my Christmas ski (don’t ask, it’s too embarrassing to tell you that it happened right after I got off the lift – before any real skiing had even begun). Oh, and I’m taking notes, lots of notes. While keeping calm.

Happy New Year!

Day 3 of the Vegas Adventure

5:15 a.m.

I’m not an early morning runner. If I had my druthers, I’d run mid-morning every day. I’d get up about 8:30, run about 9:00, shower and be to work about 10:30. But this is not my life, so I usually run over my lunch break or after work, or on weekends.

So, believe me when I say that getting up after four hours of sleep to run a half marathon was painful. Laura and Terry knocked on our door about 5:40 a.m. and I wasn’t sure whether I’d find them in running clothes or not. The last thing that happened before bed was Terry left a big tip at the front of the hotel for the shuttle driver who was supposed to return the carry-on with all of the running clothes. They had also had a “situation” with the hotel with the room, so by the time that was all figured out it was well past midnight.

But there they were, dressed like runners, ready and energetic. They had gotten up at 4:00 to order room service and eat before the run (the thought of which makes me semi-nauseous).

5:45 a.m.

The Vegas Strip was closed to traffic by 4:30 a.m. and since we were over 2 miles from the start of the race, we took a cab the “back way” via the interstate, and when we finally entered the traffic jam over the overpass the cab driver told us this was it, it was the furthest he could take us. People were getting out of cars and running toward the start line so we joined the crowd of runners, and tried to warm up. It was 34 degrees and I was freezing. I knew that once I started running I’d get hot quickly and there was no place to drop clothes before the race started, so we all collectively shivered our way to the start of the race.

6:15 a.m.

The four of us split off to go to our respective “corrals” a term that I only associate with livestock, so I wish they wouldn’t have called them that, but I guess when you have 27,000 people in a race they start to seem like penned livestock. A 1,000 people were jam-packed into each corral, which would be released in waves across the start line, and we slid into position next  to a group of running Elvis’s in red and black on the left, and another group in white on the right. Behind us a woman with a white running outfit and a wedding veil stood next to her running bridesmaids and groom. They were going to go through the run-through wedding ceremony. We didn’t have room to stretch or warm up and we were too far away to hear Cher sing the national anthem, so we just huddled together and watched the fireworks overhead, moving forward inch by inch, waiting for our start time.

6:45 a.m.

Finally, our run started! We each were given a chip to put through our shoelaces so that they could electronically record our individual start and finish times when we crossed the rubber mats at the beginning and end. I was cold, so we ran slow at the beginning, trying to get warm, listening to the sounds of the rock bands that lined the street and the Elvis’s next to us who were running with a baby jogger filled with beer and a stereo system playing both Elvis tunes and the Beatles. They took turns running with the stroller.

There was a lot to look at as we ran. Between the Vegas casinos, the mountains in the distance, and the costumed runners, the race zipped by like an entertaining movie. The only annoying thing was that there were so many people to zig zag around that I actually added on several tenths of a mile to the race distance (13.1 miles). If you want to see a slide show and video of the race, check out this link to the Las Vegas Review-Journal’s slide show. Crystal and I split up around the three mile marker, and Laura and Terry were somewhere ahead of us so I ran most of it “alone” trying to stay between a 9 and 10 mile-per-minute pace. The longest training run I had completed (based on the plan) was 10 miles so after the 10th mile I was in new territory. The swelling in my feet started to catch up with me about mile twelve so I had to slow down toward the finish line, but I was really happy with my time: 2 hours 12 min and 37 seconds. I had wanted to finish in under 2 hours 15 minutes.

9:00 a.m.

Reunited, and it feels so cold

Terry and Laura

Me and Crystal

I was so hot at the end that I stupidly refused the free space blanket to wrap around my sweaty, rapidly cooling body. We reunited at the letter Q, told race stories, drank some water, took some photos, and then went to look for a cab back to the hotel. The Strip hadn’t opened back up to traffic, so we stood in an endless line at a casino for a taxi, and kept getting colder so we decided to hoof it to the next casino. The shade and wind combined to make me so chilled that I was feeling desperate for warmth. When we finally hailed a cab, it took 45 minutes to get back to the hotel, and it cost $21 (normally $7), but I didn’t care, I just wanted a warm car.

Afterwards

First, we checked in with the hubbys and our respective football teams (Steelers and Patriots) who were both losing, then we soaked at the spa and Crystal tried her first Eucalyptus steam room, and then we napped, and then we went for all-you-can-eat sushi, and I got to wear my little red dress at the roulette table, where I lost $40. All in all, it was a marathon of a day, and a marathon of a trip, and the best introduction to Vegas a woman could get. Thanks for hanging in there for the blow-by-blow!

6:20 a.m.

Worry Wart

Day two of the Vegas adventure started at 6:20 a.m. with a more-than-slightly hungover me waking to the alarm of a text message. You should just lay there, my body said. But my brain had different ideas, so I fumbled for the phone and opened it under the covers to read the message from my sister. She had just faxed her marathon confirmation to the hotel so that I could prove I wasn’t a malicious runner’s packet stealer to the Vegas race organizers.

With this news in hand, I tried to go back to sleep, but all I could think about was my plan for getting those packets.

“I have a situation,” I’d start, or “Have you ever been in a Canadian blizzard before?” or “I’ve already picked up my packet, but my sister is somewhere between here and Alberta and won’t be arriving until after you’ve gone home for the day. Why don’t you be a pal and wave the identification requirement?” In that last scenario, I kind of imagined myself as a Soprano, handing someone a bribe who was being “difficult.”

Getting jittery that the fax may not have arrived and my sister would be on her way to the airport soon I bagged the sleep and used the light from my cell phone to find my clothes (so I didn’t wake Crystal). Dressing took approximately 10 times as long as it should because I couldn’t find a pair of pants in the dark and after remembering Crystal finding glitter on the floor last night I began to get paranoid that someone wearing a sequined dress broke into our room and stole my jeans. When you’re hungover, this seems like a reasonable theory.

8:15 a.m.

Fax in one hand, a $3 bottle of water in the other, I start to walk back to the Runner’s Expo to save a $10 cab ride. Over the course of the two miles, I stopped four times to pee. A little worried about the race and getting dehydrated, I was drinking water like crazy, and paying for it. Not only that, but my toes had suddenly started to hit the front of my shoes. My feet had swollen. A lot. This does not make for a good half marathon.

9:00 a.m.

Lost In Translation

When I finally reached the front of the line for Corral #12 (runners had different waiting gates) I took a deep breath and said, “I have a situation.” And they had a solution. Yes, the actual place I was directed was called “Solutions” and they had already heard about the delays, and bada bing bada boom I had the race packets in hand. The only problem was that I couldn’t find my way outside to a cab. I’m serious. I have never been so lost inside before. I wandered around the convention center and casino for a good half hour before I found a door that offered a glimmer of hope. Crystal thinks they do this on purpose so that you’ll get so tired you’ll just sit down and gamble, and I think she’s right.

3:00 p.m.

In the middle of shopping for a new dress I called my sister to check on their travel, and she says, “Guess where we’re at?” Calgary. Turns out the delays have stacked up and they won’t be leaving now until 4:00, and were on standby from Salt Lake City to Vegas. And the big bummer is that they are going to miss out on “O” the Cirque de Soleil performance in water playing at our hotel that night. Crystal and I weren’t planning on going, but I had picked up the tickets for my sister, and now that they couldn’t make it … well, a circus performance couldn’t be missed, right?

7:00 p.m.

O

I don’t think I’ve ever seen more than five minutes of Cirque de Soleil, even on PBS, so this was a new experience. We had incredible seats and most of the time I had a series of questions running through my head while watching the acrobatics like, “Who are these people? Ex-Olympic-gymnasts? Even ex-Olympians have bad days, am I going to see someone die tonight?” Seriously. I felt afraid for the acrobats and actors for most of the show. The most incredible part was the set, which opened up to an Olympic diving pool for parts, shallow pool for others, and completely dried up at times.

9:15 p.m.

Immediately after the show I texted my sister and heard great news back. They had arrived on the second flight and were just picking up their luggage at the airport. Crystal and I went for a late night carb loading dinner at the Italian restaurant and waited for their arrival. When they finally showed up, I thought their bad luck had ended, but instead I found out that their carry-on (which included all of their running gear) was left on the shuttle from the airport.

To Be Continued ….

I’m a little road weary from the trip and sore from the run (I silently scream at the sight of stairs) but I couldn’t wait to share the Vegas blow-by-blow since it’s so good.

I’m doling out by day, so check back for the new installments. Sorry there’s no pic for the first day – I missed my photographer (Doug) on this trip.

Friday

1:00 p.m.

What happens in Vegas does not stay in Vegas. Montana is a really big state with a population the size of a Neanderthal cave. What I’m getting at is that we all know each other, or know someone who knows someone we know, and so there are no real secrets. Which is why I shouldn’t have been that surprised when I got on the plane and locked eyes with a familiar face. I know that person. What is his name?  Peter? Tom? God, I don’t remember. All I know is, he’s from my hometown 300 miles north of here (pop. 500 or so) and I’m sure he knows my parents, as does the woman sitting next to him, who recognizes me and shouts, “Hey, what are you doing here?”  I do know her (she went to high school with me). She and the rest of the plane are going to watch the National Finals Rodeo in Vegas, and everyone laughs when she jokes, “We’re going to be doing a marathon all right, but we ain’t gonna be running.”

1:30 p.m.

Montana rednecks love to show off their scars. I’m reading Vanity Fair when I hear the man sitting next to my friend Crystal start up a conversation with her. First he asks if she’ll keep his Bud Light while he goes to the bathroom (he later tells a woman he knows not to go in ’cause he peed all over the seat), then he grosses her out with the description of his various scars. Let’s see here, he squeezed a bottle so hard that he shattered the glass and severed the tendons in his fingers. He separated his shoulder and broke his pelvis in two from a motorcross accident. He fell on top of metal post trying to break a horse when he was 9, and had a rope burn on his arm so bad it left a permanent scar from trying to swing from a tree into the lake. And those were just the visible scars. Thank god he didn’t take off his shirt! I said, “So, do you think you’re lucky to be alive?” Nope. He sure didn’t. He just wished for better times, when underage drinking was winked at in Montana, when cops just asked you, “Do your parents know where you’re at?” instead of drawing their guns.  and when an old cowboy was ready to die he just stripped off his clothes in the winter and died of exposure. To top off the conversation he took a big old pinch of chew (or snoose as we call it here) and put it in his lip in front of us.

2:30 p.m.

Planes, trains, and automobiles — My dad called with some terrible news. A big storm had hit Calgary, Alberta and my sister’s flight to Vegas had been cancelled! She had been my original inspiration to sign up and train for this run (see my post, “Oh my god, you didn’t tell him!”), and this was a sister/girls trip. I caught up with her traveling in a blizzard to a hotel next to the airport so that they (she and her friend Terry) could get up early to stand in line for the first flight out on Saturday. It wasn’t looking good.

3:30 p.m.

Bellagio Hotel to Mandalay Bay for Runner’s Expo — What do runners and cowboys have in common? They both like to wear tight pants. Seriously. The city was full of cowboys and runners when we arrived. Lycra is more comfortable than jeans, as are running shoes to cowboy boots, especially when you have to walk two miles to get from your hotel to a runner’s expo. The best Vegas advice given to me was from Blake, who wrote, “I cannot overemphasize the importance of comfortable walking shoes.” It was a 2 mile walk to Mandalay Bay, which from the strip map that I had, looked like it might be two blocks. The city should have a disclaimer that “objects in your vision are not as close as they appear.” By the time we got there we were dehydrated and in need of some cytomax. If you go to Vegas, bring your own water bottles, as they charge I’m-lost-in-the-desert-and-will-pay-any-amount-of-money for water ($3-$5 a bottle).

5:30 p.m.

Cocktail Hour

The bad thing about running a race in Vegas on Sunday is that we arrived on a Friday, which meant I had to from drinking for two whole nights. It didn’t happen. First we had a Geisha cocktail at Yellowtail lounge in the Bellagio, and it was both the best cocktail I’ve ever had and the most expensive ($14). While we were there I got another text from my sister that their trip had been cancelled! Since I’m the world’s slowest texter I called to find out the details and it turned out the morning flight had been cancelled and they wouldn’t arrive until after 6. This was only a problem because they had yet to pick up their packets to run, and there were big signs posted everywhere that “No Packets will be Given to Friends or Family. No Exceptions!” You’d think we were trying to pull off an international incident, not a half marathon run given the security at that place. I promised my sister I’d get her and Terry’s packets tomorrow by hook or crook and they booked the 12:00 flight out of Calgary.

The Geisha numbed my blood and brain cells enough to pay another $14 for a roller coaster ride at New York New York (which is a different experience entirely in your 30’s then it is in your 20’s). I downed a hard cider at the Irish pub, and did a bad imitation of Riverdance on the pub floor. And finally, we sang our lungs out at the dueling piano bar, where a group of Canadians managed to buy the ultimate Canadian medley (the Canadian Hockey Song, Oh Canada, and Barenaked Ladies – If I had a Million Dollars). In a gin-induced moment, I put $20 down for Piano Man, and Crystal had to throw down another $20 to get them to play it instead of country.

So, to sum up, so far I’ve spent more than I normally budget for a week’s worth of groceries on booze, thrill rides, and bribes in 8 hours. Sounds like Vegas to me!

A little spectacular scenery is as good for the soul as a laugh.

The thing about hiking in New Hampshire is that you can be standing at the bottom of the mountain, enjoying a warm day, and yet at the top you’re hoping not to die from exposure.

We climbed Mount Eisenhower with Doug’s brother Don, who fearlessly led us up the mountain as if climbing a 1,000 granite rocks were nothing. I have to say — I missed the West’s switchbacked, graded trails. Or, at least, my calves missed those trails the next day. New Hampshire trails are not for wimps. They are straight up and straight down and if you think that 6 miles don’t sound like much, well, think again.

When we reached the top a fog had settled in, and a fierce wind blew around us so we bundled up before making our attempt at the summit. Mount Eisenhower is part of the White Mountains, a range that includes Mount Washington, which truly has the worst weather in the lower coterminous United States. Today’s weather at the summit included 80 mph winds and snow.

I always like to pretend I’m readying for the the summit of Everest so I wrote “attempt” but it really wasn’t that bad. We were mostly worried about Don, who was wearing shorts, but claimed not to even feel the sting of sleet that fell on his legs.

From the top you’re supposed to be able to see Mount Washington, the tallest mountain in New England, but we could barely see our knees.

We did see a fox though, who was headed quickly into the brush to look for any remnants of lunch we might have left behind.

I think he had the last laugh.

If I asked you to bet on whether we would make it on time to New England given the following circumstances, you’d probably not take the bet. Our 4:30 a.m. wake up call came at 4:45. Then I locked myself out of our hotel room with my pillow still inside and had to wait for the hotel attendant to show up at the desk to get it back. We took the wrong turn twice on the way to the airport in Billings. At 5:15 (just 45 minutes before departure) I ended up in a long line at check-in at the airport behind two groups of people who spoke English as a second language. I checked in one minute before the cut-off. I was in such a rush to get to security that I didn’t notice the self-check-in spitting out four more boarding passes, and then had to run back to check-in from security to retrieve them. We had two bags with “suspicious” items and Doug had to wait 10 minutes while his bags were searched (to no avail). Two minutes before departure in Denver we realized that I had lost our camera bag (with three cameras in it). I had to run to the bathroom, the lounge where we waited, and then down to Traveler Information where two policemen interrogated me about details of the camera bag before they coughed it up – which had been left there by some kind person. All of this happened and we still managed to make two early flights and arrived four hours early to Manchester, New Hampshire. And I had to laugh.

Just not at the same time. This is what traveling in Montana is like. One night you’re picking up a thin, white terry-cloth towel from a hotel when you notice a warning sign posted in the bathroom that says, “Please do not use the ‘white linens’ for removing makeup or cleaning your shoes. That’s what the tissues are for,” and the next night you’re sleeping at a bed and breakfast where Michael Keaton rests his head before his hunting trips. 

I’ve been doing some “business” travel the past week, and since I work for The Wilderness Society, this includes getting to know some spectacularly wild landscapes and staying in some really out-of-the-way places.

Upper Missouri River Breaks National Monument

Montana is the 4th largest state in the union, and its reputation for beautiful, mountain scenery is justified. It’s just that about two-thirds of the state is more prairie than mountains and rarely visited by tourists. This isn’t all that bad, but when you show up in small prairie towns like Glasgow, or Malta, or Fort Peck, you just never know what kind of accommodations you’ll find. 

I called Doug from the Fort Peck Hotel and said, “So you know how some places you wish they would restore the historic features, like the woodwork? Well, this place doesn’t need to do that, since from what I can tell, they haven’t done anything at all to it since the 1930’s.” I didn’t want to use the shower, it looked so old, and the ceiling sagged in a few places over my bed. Blinds covered the window, with a pink sheet draped across the top for decoration. But what really puzzled me is why they offered six bars of soap and no other toiletries. Six bars of soap? I hardly use up one in a month at home.

But you know what, it’s better than staying at a chain hotel with no character at all, a place so homogenized that you’re not sure whether you’ve landed in Montana, California, New York, or New Jersey. I’ve been at conferences at Best Westerns where I’ve really had no clue about what was outside the conference center. The beauty of small towns and small town hotels is that they have character. They’re different. They even spawn different kinds of crimes.

Recently, two men got into a fight about the population of Hilger (which might have 50 year-round residents), and one man ended up dead at the end of the argument. I often pass through Hilger on my way to the Charles M. Russell National Wildlife Refuge, and I’ve never seen a population sign, but it’s tempting to go into the Rainbow Bar and ask, “So how many people live in Hilger?” and then slip out when the debate begins.

Glacier National Park

I thought that Flight of the Conchords  had the funniest tourism posters, but my own state has outdone the brilliant comedians. 

Travel Montana, which is in charge of promoting Montana to tourists, is running a series of magazine advertisements featuring scenic Glacier and Yellowstone National Park photographs and the slogan “Montana: There’s Nothing Here” with the accompanying ad copy:

“There is nothing here. Nothing but grizzlies and wolves and bison and trout. 

Nothing but fresh huckleberry pie for breakfast—with a friendly conversation on the side. 

And nothing but the growing embers of the evening’s campfire to remind you that we get to do it all over again tomorrow. Montana. You just never know.”

Um. Montana. You just never know? 

As the Great Falls Tribune pointed out today, this is a little underwhelming (and puzzling, I might add). They paid someone to come up with that?

What’s wrong with our official monikers? Montana is the Treasure State, some also call it Big Sky Country, and William Kittredge dubbed it, The Last Best Place. Now, Tourism Montana has provided us with, “Montana: You Never Know.”

 The Tribune commented, “That’s like saying “Montana: What the heck?” or “Montana: north of Wyoming.”  

Without any expectation of payment, I would like to nominate a few slogans for Montana Tourism to consider as well, such as:

 “Montana: Thank god it’s not Wyoming,” or “Montana: The Last Best Place to buy your second home.” 

Or how about:

“Montana: Only 9 months of winter.”

My Floridian father-in-law is terrified of grizzly bears, so for him I’d like to suggest,

“Montana: Grizzly bears aren’t as scary as alligators,” or “Montana: Where you don’t have to buy an air conditioner to survive.”

But seriously, Montana is paradise in the summer, and as wild and beautiful a place as you’ll ever see, and I do recommend a trip.

So, how about: “Montana: Let’s keep it that way.”

Adelaide from the airport

Saying adieu with Hannah

On the flight back to America, I collected a few more travel tips to share with my savvy readers. If there is one universal law about life I think it’s that you learn the best lessons the hard way.

Travel Tip #4: Clothes expand in your suitcase

It’s a fundamental law of traveling. What was an easy suitcase to close when you left becomes a wrestling object that makes you pant, sweat, jump up and down, and squash things that are likely to squirt gooey substances all over your clothing.

Only once in my life did I listen to my inner voice of reason and pack light. It was dreamy. I spent 10 days in Belize with a backpack smaller than the size of most school backpacks. Sure, I wore the same clothes nearly every day, but I didn’t have to hunt to find that one thing that I knew I brought but I didn’t know where I put it, or wait for baggage claim, or worry about thieves.  

Unfortunately, I didn’t learn my lesson, and this trip I packed about five books too many (gearing up for the long plane ride), not enough underwear (you can’t depend on finding a laundry), way too many clothes (at a certain point I couldn’t tell what was clean or what was dirty so it didn’t even matter), and a curling iron (what was I thinking?). I should have brought about half a suitcase full and left the rest.

Packing is really an art form that should be taught in high school right along with typing (or keyboarding, as they say these days). Next time, I vow to pack light.

Travel Tip #5: If you’re panicked about missing your flight, don’t try and rush through customs.

Ok, I’m more than a little ashamed of this story. We arrived at the Adelaide airport several hours early for our international flight. No problem. We lingered with Hannah until she boarded, and then sauntered the few gates down to where we should be boarding. Oh. It’s glassed off. Oh. We need to go through another security point. Oh. We need to go through customs.

At this point, I’m sweating it. It’s boarding time, and the customs officials are taking it slow and easy. I put on my most charming voice and ask two couples in front of us if their planes are boarding right now, and oh please, would you allow us to jump in front of the que since our plane is about to take off for New Zealand without us? Thank you.

Then, we finally get to the customs official, and she helpfully says, “Ok, it looks like everything is in order except you haven’t filled out this form. You’ll have to go fill that out over there and bring it back to me.”

Next, I got a little crazy, and tried to tell her that our plane was leaving and couldn’t we just fill it out right there? I swear, when stressed, I could feel the rude American just creeping out from under my skin where I had tried to bury it and deny that it ever existed. For two weeks I had been as quiet as possible (trying to dodge the loud American stereotype), polite in line, smiley with strangers, and very clear with taxi drivers that I loved Obama and never voted for Bush.  

All of that goodness fled in a mere five minutes until Doug, seeing reason, pulled me over to the table to fill out our forms. Then, he told me that he wasn’t wearing his reading glasses and couldn’t fill out the form. I think I had a panic attack right there. In a split second, I started to fill out my form, hyperventilate, and read off the various lines to Doug. “First line is first name,” I shouted. “Second line is your birthdate!” while he muttered, “Damn. I think I put my occupation where my country of origin is supposed to go.” Ahh!!!

We finally return to the desk, and the customs official smiles at us and says, “Don’t worry. They won’t leave without you. They come back here to find you if you don’t show up.” She leans in closer to me and delivers the final blow, “No panicking. We don’t panic in Australia.”

We made the flight in time for economy class boarding and for Doug to ask me if I needed medical attention.

Travel Tip #6: Don’t wear fleece clothing on an international flight

So, I bought this really cute gym outfit from Eddie Bauer at Christmas that doesn’t look like sweats, but really is (it’s tailored fleece after all). I thought, “This will be perfect for the plane. I won’t get cold. It’s comfy. I can sleep in it.”

Well, I could sweat in it too. After my panic attack at customs, I still had about 20 hours of travel left to go and I was already afraid to lift my armpits up. I applied some wet towels and new deodorant but the damage was already done. My other clothes were checked and there was little I could do when the airplane didn’t cool down from tropical temperatures. Even in good times, when the airplane stays cool and I stay cool and I wear enough deodorant, I want to burn the clothes I wear when I travel. This time, when I got off the plane, the urge was almost unbearable. If I was a little more off my rocker I would have started a fire made from fleece in the airport bathroom, but instead I just changed and have banned the said items from my sight for the next millenia. Still, I wouldn’t put it past me to do it in the future.

Travel Tip #7: Don’t watch sad movies on the airplane

I knew what I was getting into. I avoid movies where the animal dies at the end for a good reason. I just couldn’t help myself. I deliberately chose to watch Marley & Me on the airplane, knowing full well how it would turn out, but resolving that this time, just this once, I would be able to control my emotions.

Yeah right. I collapsed into hysterics at the end, trying to rub the tears off my face slowly, like I was scratching an itchy spot, so that I wouldn’t scare the little old lady sitting in the window seat who probably was wondering why I hadn’t taken my meds that day.

All during the movie I had been laughing and chuckling, pretending that it would be a happy ending and telling Doug, “Oh, you have to watch this. It’s really funny!”

And then, the dog died, and I couldn’t bear it, and all sorts of totally humiliating fluids were coming out of my face like a storm and Doug was trying to calm me down saying, “Well, I guess I won’t be watching that movie.”

Travel Tip #8: If your flight is over 12 hours long, business class is worth the extra money

Filing on the plane from Auckland, New Zealand to Los Angeles, I couldn’t help but stare at the pods in business class with outright envy. They had space, real space, enough space to lie down and maybe enough space that they could avoid having their feet swell and pure hypochondriac, “oh my god, I’m going to get a blood clot” moments on the plane.

I’m not going to lie. I had the worst seat. We were seated in the middle aisle (the dreaded middle land of nowhere), Doug on the aisle, and I in the middle of the middle aisle seats, next to a man who had one foot in my seating area and who refused to speak when spoken to. I swear he was meditating the entire time on me disappearing.

In crowded situations like these, every little thing starts to disturb you. For instance, Doug’s stuff had started to wander into my space — his shoes, his travel pillow, his book, and when he was a little bit grumpy when I woke him up to go to the bathroom I admit to being a bit more emphatic than necessary when I plonked everything back into his space and then leaned in. “Just because we’re married does not mean you get to hog my space on the plane,” I whispered passionately in his ear. Fortunately, he was asleep again by then.

Travel Tip #9: Don’t go to the bathroom after you’ve run through the entire airport to catch your flight.

It was the last flight. The flight that we had been waiting for, dreaming of, for over 20 hours. The flight home. And if we missed this flight we would be stuck in Salt Lake City overnight, if not longer. We had ten minutes. We ran. We ran like we had never run before. From terminal D to terminal A. Past bathrooms, past the obese person being dropped off at his gate by cart, past food, down escalators, up escalators. At one point I almost had to cry, “Go without me. I can’t make it. You can! Save yourself!”

Then, relief. A line at the counter, people were boarding at our gate, so Doug fled for the bathroom.

 ”Bozeman!” cried the man at the gate. “Yes,” I panted. “We’re right here. My husband. Is just. In the bathroom. He will. Be back. In a minute.”

A minute went by and the man looked at me. “We’re closing this flight in one minute. He needs to be here by then or we’re closing this flight.”

I ran towards the bathroom, not knowing if I had the courage to run into a men’s bathroom and yank my husband out by his unzipped pants but willing to do so if I had to.

He saw me coming. I waved and made a face like a close family member was dying. He ran. They scanned our boarding pass and urged us to hurry.

And then we ran some more. To the furthest gate in the extension off of the main terminal.

I slid into my seat like an animal dying from respiratory distress and the second little old lady to sit next to me asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be. All right. In a second.” Cough. Inhaler. Cough.

And then a voice on the loudspeaker. “Folks, this is your captain speaking. We’re just going to be a few more minutes. Looks like we’re still waiting for some delayed passengers to reach the airplane. Sorry for the delay. We expect them here in the next 15 minutes.”

The next 15 minutes? I just ran like a track star with a heavy suitcase for probably a mile and nearly had to drag Doug out of the bathroom by his pants and you’re waiting another 15 minutes for more people? We were supposed to leap on and you were supposed to take off! That’s the best ending possible! That’s the only ending that justifies my heart rate!

I don’t know what to say to conclude this long rant except that we did eventually make it home. I showered three times before I felt clean. I buried my washed fleece outfit in the back of the closet where it may stay forever. And I swear to you that I will never, ever run through an air terminal again.