While on the shuttle bus in my caffeine deprived state, I still had some awakening clarity to begin to form the list of everything that had not made it into the everything that was packed. Topping the list were my magnifying mirror to aid in the application of anything facial and or to assist in the removal of anything facial (think tweezers), the suitcase locks (which I later realized would have been cut off anyway), and my razor (highlighting itself as the most serious of deficiencies because I had packed shorts and skirts as attire). Oh well, perhaps the airport has a various and sundries store?
I arrived at the airport with approximately 268, 421 other people also trying to get curbside check in, boarding pass check in, and stand in lines for security check in. Finishing at curbside I was moved along by the mass of humanity to the next line of import. The ladies bathroom. I was taking seriously the no containers of liquid greater than 3.4 ounces, and my bladder was seriously extended past that limit.
In the bathroom I, and 46 other women, became privy to the less than private rantings of Dolores at Walter for not showing up at the airport to get his less than illustrious picture taken for a photo id on the extremely necessary security tag required by the better than he deserved job that she had bent over backwards in excruciating just like her last childbirth labor pains before the epidural effort to acquire for him, and if he was going to be less than ingratiatingly thankful for this magnanimous partaking on his regrettable personality deficient behalf, well then, she had to go and pee.
I soon became convinced that the phone call was an effort on Hartsfield's part to keep women in the bathroom for longer than necessary because the lines were moving so slowly.
I walked for 5 minutes in and around people, asked 3 of them were they at the END of the line to which I was pointed in yet another direction to walk towards. Finally happening upon a security type guy, not Walter of course, next to some yellow crime scene tape, I asked him if he knew where the END of the line stood. He refused to look at me but began to talk, literally, out of the side of his mouth that I should stand where I was, consider it a free pass, and no asking or telling anyone as to how I got there. The lady in front of me then informed me that the actual, be-all and end-all END of the line was somewhere in baggage claim hinterlands to which I squeaked a small, "thank you," and shut my mouth.
It was another 15 minutes of standing before I passed by the flashing red sign that indicated from where I was standing that I only had a mere 20-30 minute wait more. And for this I was thankful.
I moved through the labyrinth feeling like a mouse after the cheese. I diligently studied the videos of security screening 101, repeating to myself the instructions so that once upon the conveyor belts and bins I would not appear nervous and warrant a further search.
Yes, we all have dreams.
To be continued...