I tend to carry around a lot of stress. Like, a shit ton of it. Seriously. I'm a tragic mess of stress. I need to be in charge of stuff, and have it go smoothly or I lose my goddamn mind.
Last Sunday, the girl was supposed to fly back to school. Her flight was perfectly timed to take off AND LAND before the stupid giant winter storm hit. I called the airline to double check, but was told that there would be at least a two-hour wait for a call-back. Hmmm . . . still, she was in the window. IN THE WINDOW OF GOOD WEATHER.
We got to the airport. We checked her bag. She sailed through security. She got to the gate. We were happy, and a little smug.
And then, on the drive home, as the snow started falling, she texted that there was a delay. That they weren't boarding. O.k., I started getting a little worried, and so did the husband, and then we got home and started tracking the snow and the weather and the goddamn flight app which kept saying it was going to take off in 5 minutes, except we knew FOR A FACT that the girl was still sitting at the gate with some increasingly agitated passengers.
Still, we foolishly had hope. And I had a nervous stomach. And we kept checking that motherfucking, lying-ass app, that kept telling us that the flight was ready to depart.
Of course, it did not. And the husband had to go out driving in a winter snow storm to pick up our baby girl.
Repeat Monday. When she finally got home at midnight.
Repeat Tuesday. When she went back to the airport at 6:30am to try and catch another flight.
Fourth time was the charm, and she got back to school on Wednesday. I was a fucking wreck.To combat this during the hours my kid was at the airport on FOUR SEPARATE OCCASIONS, I stress-cooked [I AM MAKING MACARONI AND CHEESE] and stress-cleaned [EVERY RUG NEEDS TO BE WASHED] to pass the time and not constantly refresh the several flight tracking apps on my phone and computer, as well as the baggage tracker [NO, THE BAG DID NOT MAKE IT ON HER FLIGHT. IT'S STILL . . . SOMEWHERE.] and also not pester my kid with constants texts asking her how she was doing. Which she was fine, because she was 16 and hanging out at the Starbucks next to her gate.
And now, of course, I am sick. And so is the husband. Actually, he was sick first, so this is his fucking fault.
I would take to my bed, but my mom just had surgery, and my kid's 17th birthday is happening [HOW IS SHE 17? SHE IS MY BABY!], so I'm just going to go out and infect everyone because then they can be miserable, too.
Because misery loves company, and stress makes sure that cock-bastard gets all the company he deserves.
My most sincere apologies to anyone and everyone I panick-messaged during this time. Particularly Abby of Abby Has Issues, who kindly did not tell me to shut the fuck up and take it down a notch.