I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what happened. As a general rule, I am responsible and thorough and “together.” But I misread our itinerary, and what I thought was a 5:50am flight was actually a 5:20am flight. And this morning, thanks to my negligence, my dad and I missed our plane.
The original plan? Arrive back in Kansas City at noon. The new, stupid, festering pustule of a plan? Pay $100 to reschedule our tickets, kill time until catching a flight at 3pm, arrive back in Kansas City at 11pm, only to take the shuttle out to the middle of nowhere to find our car, and then drive the hour back home. I’ll do some middle-of-the-night repacking, fashion scrambling, and then get up early to fly to New York tomorrow morning.
It’s no big deal. It’s no big deal. Everything is going to be fine. My dad is calm, forgiving, understanding. We’ll get home eventually. I am trying to speak soothing words of reason, words of assurance, to myself. But all that I want to do is scream filthy expressions of smut.
Excuse me while I go stuff my mouth with olives, and flip myself off in my mind.