Get out of this town

I cannot pull an all-nighter for the life of me.

Last night, I went to a holiday party and then met up with my best friend from undergrad to watch a late-night movie. We ended up making pasta and chatted for a while. About old roommates. New roommates. His girlfriend. My non-existent boyfriends. School. Movies. Computers. Really, to be honest, I don't really remember what we talked about (see: holiday party), but I do remember that was a lot of fun just catching up.

I didn't get home until 3am.

Normally, that would be fine. Normally, I would have hit the bed with my made-up face and tangled curls and snoozed until noon. Normally, I wouldn't mind being such a lazy bum during break.

Except I had the first plane out of Chicago headed for beautiful sunny California.

I had planned to leave my house by six so that I would get to the airport in time to make my 8am flight. Just enough time to throw in my last-minute toiletries and sweater, walk out the door and hail a cab.

But you know what they say about the best laid plans.

I said my goodbyes to my friend at 3am and headed home to pack and clean, but the moment I saw my bed, my head hit the pillow and I was fast asleep. With my made-up face and tangled curls and itchy holiday party clothes still on. I woke up at exactly 6:46am...and the first thing that went through my head were some things that probably shouldn't be repeated here.

I don't even know how I managed to throw everything into my carry-on. I don't know how I put on my contacts and brushed my teeth. I don't know how I remembered to grab my phone charger and computer and glasses. I was so frazzled, and yet, I managed to be out of my door by 6:58am. With matching socks on.

I know. I can be freaking amazing sometimes.

I told my cabbie to drive like the wind, and two near accidents and three almost dead pedestrians later, I was at the airport by 7:40.

Just so you know, it normally takes an hour and a half to get from my apartment to the good ol' ORD. And there was traffic. Lots of it.

So while I didn't make it there with time to spare, I wasn't late, per se. Not yet. So I ran into the airport, told everyone in sight that my plane was leaving in five minutes, and managed to get through security checkpoints and to my gate by 7:45am.

Like I said, I can be pretty amazing sometimes.

Just picture this. I'm running through the airport like a madwoman - and I probably looked like one, what with my mussed up holiday party hair from the night before and smudged makeup caked on my face. So when I finally get to the gate (which had to be the farthest one of course), I freaked when I saw the JetBlue employee close the gate door.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Yes, he replied. Simply.

But it's not 8am yet! I need to be on that plane! I pleaded. I was officially freaking out. Understandably freaking out, in my own humble opinion.

Yes. We decided to close the gates a little early because everyone else was here.

But I'm here! And it's not 8am! It's SEVEN FREAKING FORTY FIVE!

And then he said the best line ever uttered by an airline employee.

Well, are you done freaking out, or do you need another minute or two hours?

...

What?

You can continue to cry over spilled milk, or I can put you on the next flight.

I was so flabbergasted, I didn't say anything. Eventually though, he put me on the next flight (which was nine hours later), and I sat down - dejected and worn out - at the gate.

I pulled out my computer, started writing an email to my roommate, and looked out the window at the beautiful blue plane that I should have been on. On my way to beautiful sunny California.

And then I noticed what time it was. 8:27am. The plane had been sitting there for the last forty minutes. The plane that I should have been on. The plane that I definitely could have still been on. The plane that had doors Mr. Martin could have opened for me. The plane that would have had me in California twelve hours ago.

I love the airport.