Super Fantastic

I wrote this one a few days ago…

I was awake at 3:30 Sunday morning so I could make coffee for Frank and myself; we enjoy our coffee time each morning and I wasn’t about to miss this morning, regardless of the insanely early time so I could arrive at the airport at 6am for a 7:15am flight to Nashville. I will miss coffee time three out of five days in the coming week, so this morning’s coffee time was an imperative. Success! I fed three animals instead of the usual four their cereal and warm fluffy milk while the Moka pot built up its pressure and I finally heard the gurgling sound informing me that I had left it on the fire a little too long. I hoped it wouldn’t be bitter. It wasn’t. Sweet milky deliciousness greeted my taste buds. We enjoyed it in bed while Rose Petal curled next to me, Jacky slept like a dead bug between my ankles, and Oscar Wilder, a.k.a Orange Cat, stretched out to an impossible length at the foot of the bed. Both cats purred their contented lullaby while Frank and I discussed our plans for this week. He and Jacky are meeting me Chattanooga so we can drive back home together through the mountains and stop along the way for shopping, food, and photographs.

As I arrived at the airport, the line for security went all the way to the windows on the far side of the terminal. I have not seen security lines that long since I flew home from Texas right after 9/11. I momentarily forgot my manners and said a four-letter word that begins with F. Oops. An older lady gave me a withering look. Sorry about that, I said internally, as I made my way to the end of the line.

Ah, security. 

I believe we often find what we seek. I generally seek joy and happy people, so that’s usually what and who I find. I am genuinely shocked when I am met with anger and rudeness, which also means I have a fairly low tolerance for my definition of rudeness. 

I walked the German Shepherd gauntlet. My bags apparently smelled okay. I didn’t even warrant a glance from the beast who had been generously rewarded a few passengers earlier for tagging a backpack with his impressive snout. 

I made my way to the scanning station and presented my driver’s license and boarding pass. I successfully remembered first my last name and then my first. Despite my weight gain, I still look enough like the photo on my license that I passed the look at me back my license back at my face test. “Move along,” the man said without emotion.

“Keep everything inside of your bag. Put your bag on the belt and keep moving,” a disembodied voice said. Someone must have missed the message, because the voice, suddenly raised, came from the smileless face of a young woman standing near the metal detector. Like prisoners being led to the cell block, we all complied and robotically placed our bags on the conveyor belt.

“Good morning,” I said to the woman standing behind the conveyor belt making sure we all left our belongings in our bags instead of removing our laptops and mobile devices as we have been trained for years to do. 

She said nothing. I believed she did not hear me. All people are friendly until proven otherwise.

“Good morning,” I smiled and said a little too sunshiney.

Still nothing. I gave up.

I walked through the metal detector. The claxon sounded.

“Step to the side and remove your shoes,” the tall slender man said in a booming voice not making eye contact with me. But he had to be speaking to me since I was standing in the detector with the alarm screaming. I was reminded of my brief experience as a prison nurse.

I backed out of the detector and to the side. I realized that both my phone and my wallet were in my jacket pockets. Oops, that’s what set off the alarm, I thought. I pulled them both out and holding them up said to the smileless young woman that I had forgotten to remove them. Cutting me off mid-word, she said, “The man asked you to remove your shoes, now remove your shoes or step out of the line.”

Not wanting to remove my shoes and walk barefoot on the nasty floor, I tried again to explain that the shoes I was wearing had never set off the alarm and that I was certain the phone and wallet were the issue. I wanted to ask for another attempt with those items removed and my shoes still on my feet. 

“I’m not going to ask you again. Remove your shoes.” 

I removed my shoes and turned to walk back to the conveyor. 

“Put your shoes in the bin and walk forward.” Her tone and condescension again reminded me of the two weeks I spent as a prison nurse. I placed my shoes, wallet, and phone in the bin and walked, head down, back through the detector. I felt an odd desire to place my hands behind my back.

Not feeling very thankful at the moment, I still said thank you to the tall splendor man. He rolled his eyes. I shrugged my left shoulder and moved to the conveyor, barefoot and bagless, to retrieve my belongings. 

Admittedly, I have not been feeling overly joyous this week. My beloved grumpy old tiny Dudley died unexpectedly Thursday morning. The world has seemed a little less kind and I have been a lot less tolerant these past few days. I had the sudden urge to tell the tall splendor man he would enjoy a one-way ticket to a very hot place. I turned to give him a scathing look and to communicate my offense at both his and the young woman’s attitudes and as quickly refrained and simply walked away. My scorn would have done nothing but proven their rudeness had been warranted, that travelers are impatient and demanding and don’t follow the rules.

I needed to put myself in a better mood, so I became super fantastic.

To the flight attendant with the beautiful red curls, I told her she was beautiful. She smiled. To the woman seated next to me on the second flight, I made polite small talk about country music not really being country music anymore, when I don’t know anything about country music. I told her I was ignorant about Nashville allure, except that I had visited the Parthenon, the Grand Ole Opry, and Ernest Tub’s record shop on previous trips years ago.

When I finally arrived in Nashville and went to the rental agency to pick up my car, I replied super fantastic when the representative asked me about my day. He laughed and said that was much better than his present state. He upgraded my car. I greeted the parking attendant with the same hyper energy when I asked if I needed to wait in line for keys. “No, baby girl,” he said, “you just go to your car parked in the numbered spot on your ticket and take off.” He beamed at me. I was equally sunshiney at being called baby girl at nearly 50. And then when a nice lady chose me to pull around and start a new line for checking out of the parking deck, I rolled my window and down and gave her a loud drawn thank youuuuu and blew her a kiss. She laughed and wished me a safe journey. She probably considered a sobriety test, but I had only drank orange juice and coffee so far.

I stopped at a store on my way to the hotel. They had a white scarf with lemons on it. I wrote a story once about a woman whose favorite dress was covered in lemons and have been dying for a lemon dress of my own ever since. I was happy to settle for the lemon scarf today. The cashier asked me how my day was going. 

“Super fantastic!” I smiled. 

“Wow,” she said. “Mine has not been that great so far.” 

“Then you have something to look forward to,” I said. “Bad days can only get better,” I beamed like some sugar laden self-help guru. She laughed.

Finally, I arrived at my hotel exhausted from half a day of travel. Why did I decide to fly to Nashville rather than drive? I hate flying. Every step is a hassle. My angry legs were screaming at me, “screw you and the shoes you walked in on.” Sleep, I wanted sleep. Next month, I am driving. I don’t care if it’s eight hours. I am far less tired when I drive than when I fly. Oh, yes, the hotel. I was two hours early for check-in and sincerely with every fiber of my being hoped they had a clean room. 

“How are you today, ma’am?” She asked professionally and disingenuously.

My super fantastic was wearing thin, but “Super fantastic!” I smiled. “How are you?”

“Oh, wow,” she said. “I’m good but not that good. How can I help you?”

“I’m checking in,” I explained and handed her my license and credit card.

“Oh, you must travel a lot. You already know what I need.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, you know check-in isn’t until 3pm,” she said apologetically.

“I know,” I admitted. “I am just exhausted was hoping you would have a room ready. If not, no worries; I will sit in the restaurant and do some work for a couple of hours. As long as I’m off my feet, I will be happy.”

She typed on her computer keyboard. “Hmmm,” she said, frowning. My heart sank. “Oh, wait!” We not only have a room ready but I am going to upgrade you to a suite.” She looked up at me and smiled.

“You just made my whole entire day,” I said. 

She smiled, swiped my card, and handed me my room card.

I went to my room, methodically organized my toiletries, laid out my outfit for the next day, and peed, of course. I then put on pajamas, pulled the covers back on the bed, and slid into the crisp white sheets for an hour-long nap before preparing my presentations for the upcoming week. 

I am still sad about losing my dog last week. It wasn’t his time. It wasn’t fair. I wasn’t home when he passed to tell him good-bye and that I loved him.

But faking super fantastic all day sort of made a difference by the end of the day. I am not super fantastic, but I feel a hell of a lot better than I when I arrived at RDU International Airport this morning and saw that long long security line.

That said, can someone figure out how to perk up the TSA agents? I’m going to throw a super fantastic at them on my next flight.