Traveling home from a Hawaiian vacation and heading back into reality. Somewhat reluctantly, truth be told.
Tuesday morning. 5 a.m. Airport coffee and a plastic chair. Tinsel on the airport art. Fa-la-la-la-la.
Life's been a blur of work and Christmas. Throw in a new hockey bruise and you're up to speed.
Every time I switch on the news, my stomach turns over. I keep switching it on though. I'm starting to wonder if I do it out of social responsibility or as a rubbernecker watching a slow-motion car wreck crash into Washington.
The best I can do is take a deep breath, resist the urge to panic, and look to my local community for ways to help.
There's music everywhere here. On any given street corner in the French Quarter there could be a band playing -- with dented up instruments and announced by cardboard sign -- that'll blow your socks off. They're playing for change and they have a box full of home-burned CDs enscribed in sharpee and wrapped up in binder paper. Then you go into the clubs on Frenchmen Street and your world gets rocked again. Everywhere you turn, jazz, brass, and blues.
And I'm in an airport again.
Not my airport. But if you can navigate one well, you can roll with the others easily enough. And what I've learned from a year of frequent business travel is that you don't always end up in the airport in which you expected to find yourself when you booked your flight anyway.
Had a birthday last week. That's one more trip around the sun and natural selection hasn't gotten the better of me yet. Is good.
I'm sitting in the airport waiting for a plane to show up and take me home. It's the end of the day and officially dear-god-I-want-a-cup-of-tea o'clock.
Still, it's chill enough. Terminal's not crowded. My day went quick. Lots of meetings. Traffic wasn't too bad.
So I'm back from outer space. Back in my home with my family and my cat. And now that I'm not in the midst of a long day at the airport, I can tell you about the conference and how cool it was.
Checked out of the hotel, got a cab to the airport. Waited in line to check my bag, waited in line to dump out my water bottle, waited in line to take off my shoes and do the TSA shuffle, waited in line to refill my water bottle, waited in line for food, waited in line for the bathroom. Settled at gate and cracked open paperback. The PA system announced a gate change. Resettled at new gate and recracked open paperback. The flight is delayed. Not rare. The flight is completely full. Not rare.
I am tired. Not. Rare.
I've had a head cold. I've been traveling for work. I've been traveling for work with a head cold. Between cars and planes and cold meds, I feel muddled past the state of coherent sentences.
I'm juggling a fair amount of stuff this week. With my above-discussed razor sharp mental reflexes, I feel like I'm just managing everything, but managing it all badly. And all I really want to do is huddle in a little ball in the dark and read the latest edition of Knitty undisturbed.
I did what I'd consider crazy amounts of travel up and down the length of California this summer. I hit Humboldt, Big Sur, San Diego, and a few spots in between, and in nothing like so sensible an order as just listed.
In the midst of a busy summer with more travel plans than my hobbitty self copes with well, I reached into my yarn stash, pulled out a couple of balls of fingering weight merino, and cast on for the most complicated scarf pattern my over-taxed psyche could handle. Two-by-two rib, baby.