When life gives you lemons steal some apples

I stole a bunch of apples this weekend.

Not literally.

For the second post in a row, a lyric from my new favorite musical, Kimberly Akimbo, applied to life.

Well, my life anyway.

“When life gives you lemons you gotta steal some apples because who the f’ wants lemons.”

It all started Friday night.

I’d spent three days in Baltimore on a work trip, shooting photos, pitching media and running a livestream of a robotics academy sponsored by one of my company’s customers.

After the academy was over I drove my rental car to DCA for my flight home. Long drive, I know, but worth it in my opinion, after years of bad juju at BWI traveling for a previous employer.

Scheduled departure time was 8:08 pm.

I got to the airport in plenty of time, armed with a book to read while awaiting my flight.

Not long after I got to the airport, the flight was delayed by about 90 minutes. Thunderstorms in the area made the drive to DCA a bit of a challenge, so this was not entirely a surprise.

Dozens of flights were delayed and a dozen or so were cancelled. The line to the American Airlines customer service desk on concourse E was a solid 100 people deep at least.

National news reports said delays and cancellations were to be expected because of weather. Not terribly convenient for holiday weekend travel.

I steeled myself for a long night.

There was a second delay.

Because of the first delay, the crew for the flight to Knoxville was late. They were on an inbound flight that got held up because of the weather.

The tension among passengers and some crew intensified as the delays and cancellations started mounting.

For all the resilience we supposedly learned during pandemic life, there was an awful lot fragility on display because of a minor inconvenience.

Sarcasm is one of my love languages and I love to hear it and speak it, but when sarcasm becomes criticism and then anger directed at airline personnel who are powerless to change the situation, that’s just not cool.

The longer we waited, the more the folks around me got agitated. 

I sat calmly, still reading my book. 

It’s not that I am above being frustrated. I was as ready to go home as everyone else. It sucked being delayed. It was inconvenient as hell. But taking my frustrations out on the gate agents or the baggage claim staff would not make the situation any better. The flight was still going to be delayed. 

Look, in this life after cancer a flight delay is a First World problem and not life-threatening. It was inconvenient, for sure, but all I can ever control is how I respond.

Some people were not responding well.

Somewhere around 11 p.m. we finally boarded the plane. 

The flight attendant closed the door.

We listened to the safety briefing. I always listen to the safety briefing. The attendants are required to give it, the least I can do is pay attention for two minutes while they demonstrate the workings of the oxygen mask.

And then…nothing.

We sat on the tarmac for almost an hour.

Waiting.

Eventually the pilot reported that there was a construction project that closes the longer of DCA’s runways every night. Our plane was too heavy for the shorter, open runway. Dispatch and the gate manager were trying to determine what to do.

Second busiest air travel day since we returned to “normal” after the pandemic. Perhaps that nightside construction project could have been halted for the holiday weekend? But, I digress.

The plane door was opened. We were invited to disembark and take our belongings with us. Some of us would not be getting back on, we were told.

While some fuel was being siphoned out of the tank to reduce the plane’s weight, 23 passengers needed to come off the manifest.

There would be a lottery.

“Lottery in June, plane goes home soon,” I thought, mangling Shirley Jackson. 

More unease and displeasure among my fellow passengers.

I sat and finished my book while gate agents apologized profusely for what they knew was a ridiculous situation. 

A couple of passengers volunteered to come off the plane and got offered great deals because they had flexible travel schedules. Challenge was, there was only one available seat out on Saturday, so anyone who volunteered would be staying the weekend in DC.

That was acceptable to a handful of people and two of them got processed with hotel vouchers, $1,000 in travel credit and heaven knows what else.

I considered giving up my seat until the gate agent said all bags in the cargo hold would go through the Knoxville. Even if we were left behind. 

I thought about my ostomy supplies. I carry enough supplies in my backpack for every day I’m on travel plus an extra day. I pack additional supplies in my checked luggage also for every day plus one because you never know.  

Travel does weird things to my digestive system. What if I needed those supplies?

Still, for $1,000 in travel credit I could figure something out.

Then it happened.

The announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, the crew for flight XXXX has timed out (meaning they’d been on the clock as long as FAA regulations allow) so this flight is now cancelled.”

It was somewhere around 1 a.m.

We were directed to visit the customer service counter to make new travel arrangements. 

Fortunately, my travel was arranged by our corporate agency so I called the after hours number.

The first available flight was Sunday afternoon, approximately 36 hours hence. I took the seat, and then got a room booked at the Doubletree in Crystal City, about a mile from the airport as the crow flies. If the crow was flying.

Second weekend in a row I got extra time in DC. 

The weekend before, my flight was cancelled because of weather following the National Coalition for Cancer Survivorship Cancer Policy Advocacy Team Symposium. My flight out then left late Saturday, so I spent the day at a bookstore and a cafe. It was self-care heaven.

I essentially repeated that process this past weekend. 

Books, coffee, coconut macaroons and relaxation.

I didn’t tell any of my DC area friends that I had two extra days in town.

I didn’t want to. 

I make no apologies for this.

My inner introvert was exhausted. 

By day I play the extroverted public relations professional and cancer advocate. Always “on.”

Ready for media pitches and interviews, presentations, small talk, big talk. I do all of that because, well, I’m pretty good at it and I like to do it but I also know when I’ve had enough. 

A trip to Chattanooga and three trips to the DC area during the month of June where I had to be “on” was more than enough. 

Don’t get me wrong, there were beautiful memories, moments and great conversations all month long. But I know when I need my downtime. My self-care and mental health demands it. 

Silence.

Being “off.”

A good nap. Or two.

A good book. Or two.

Three books, actually. 

I finished The Quiet Boy by Ben H. Winters at the airport. A good read. A weird mixture of whodunnit murder mystery, medical drama with a touch of sci-fi.

I read The Man Who Died Laughing, the first in the Stewart Hoag mystery series, by David Handler. I picked up the ninth book in the series at the Mysterious Bookshop while in New York City. I liked it and decided to start from the beginning.

And I’d Like to Play Alone, Please by comedian Tom Segura. One of his kids told his dad he wanted to play alone. I totally related, obviously.

Arrived at the airport today and had a completely uneventful trip home. Not even a slight hiccup in travel plans. 

Back to reality.

Life gave me lemons. I stole some apples.

It was heavenly.