Clark W. Griswold
It’s never the properly amazing things you remember about trips is it? It’s not the scenery or the perfect weather or the bland lunches spent laughing over memories. It’s the accidental hilarity that makes life wonderful. The stupid things that went wrong and wreaked havoc.
It’s the havoc we love and remember. It’s the havoc that makes the memories that we’ll share over bland lunches for years to come.
There was plenty of madness on our trip to California. From getting lost in the woods of Santa Barbara in the middle of the night while looking for the wrong hotel, to running over a possom at high speeds on the highway. The possum, by the way, wasn’t that exciting – it was listening to Jenny come undone in the backseat as she became convinced that I was some sort of overtired, delusional driver on a suicide mission to take us all into the Pacific as I yelled, “OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD,” and mowed that poor thing down, rolling it under our tires like a stone.
Ironically, it’s the trip home that sticks out most for me. I used to be a really laid back traveler, arriving at the airport 30 minutes before departure and happily winging it, even in post-911 security. Being late never stressed me out. My friends were of a similar disposition – our inherent naivete and inexperience gave us a freedom and innocence we’ve lost in our older age. Or at least I’ve lost. I now know that planes take off without you – security takes longer than you think – and I find more comfort in being able to load up on magazines and grab a pre-flight latte than the extra hour of sleep and relaxation on the front end. This is compounded by the fact that I am afraid to fly – stress before even greater stress isn’t really a combo platter I willingly sign up for.
Couple this so-called maturity with spending six years with a man who builds out an itinerary for every trip we’ve ever taken down to the minute and arrives at the airport NO LESS than two hours before flight time, even if it’s a simple Delta shuttle to New York. The itinerary is usually printed and includes time allotted for packing, waking up and drive time. It’s irritating, but endlessly endearing.
It’s rubbed off.
On our last day, we got a bit of a late start on our way to the airport. We were taking the redeye, and I don’t think any of us realized how awkward the 9 p.m. departure time would be. Assured from our friend Kim (the one we made the pilgrimage to visit!) that the airport was a mere 30 minutes away, the three of us piled into our rented Ford Focus and made the trek to Long Beach. Somewhere on Torrence Boulevard, I realized what time it was and my Inner Adam broke loose.
I didn’t handle it well. I panicked, clutching the steering wheel with a grip that could turn coal into diamonds and muttered such nonsensical things like, “What thefucklookwhat timeitisandwehavetoreturntherentalcarandgetgasandallthatand JESUS CHRIST itssolateandwhatthefuckarewegoingtodoandwherethehellarewe?” and “It’s my fault. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN MORE VIGILANT WITH THE ITINERARY.”
And then, the inevitable happened.
We missed our exit. And I became SOMEONE ELSE and was rendered completely incapable of making a single decision, shouting things like, “WHERE THE FUCK ARE WE?” and “WHERE SHOULD I GO? SOMEBODY TELL ME WHAT TO DO, STAT.” while tapping my fingers to some vague African drum beat and gnawing on my lips until they bled. Jenny was silent in the back, I later learned because she was, yet again, terrified of me, and poor Eve sat in the passenger seat, saddled with the bulk of my wrath and offering soothing words such as, “It’s okay Button! We’ll get there! It’ll be okay!” and “RELAX. Please relax. Oh my god, just RELAX.”
I was so not relaxed.
By some miracle, we made it with TWENTY WHOLE MINUTES TO SPARE. I ran, threw the keys at the rental man while they checked in and held a spot for me. After arriving on the plane, Jenny informed us that this was her first flight without anti-anxiety meds, so she might be a little on edge.
Great.
She did astonishingly well, but for her habit of verbalizing EVERY SINGLE FEAR that crossed her mind, tossing it out there like a fistful of diamonds on the table. I’m familar with this tack, as I employ it often myself – putting it out there for someone else to deal with invalidates it, to some degree. I get it and feel her pain. Except when someone else does it, I don’t do so well. So, somewhere in the middle of Jenny’s diatribe about the lax security at the gate and her philosophical musings of what the pilot’s unkempt hair might mean for the no doubt apocolyptic fate of JetBlue Flight 488, I began to let my mind wander to the sound of the retracting flaps and our mysterious flight pattern that appeared to be taking us even more towards the open Pacific, which in case you are geographically challenged, IS NOT THE SAME DIRECTION AS BOSTON and is most likely the evil plot of suicidal pilots with messy hair and bad teeth and I blurted out,
“I CANNOT TALK ABOUT THIS NOW. I AM FREAKING OUT.”
A few drinks later, all was calm. There was laughter and even sleep, if you can believe it. The lion in me had calmed down and we were three friends on our way back from an amazing vacation. But what’s really astonishing is that somehow, this – this insanely miserably stressful experience – has become a havoc-filled memory that I will cherish. Our clashing sibling-like personalities. How free I am around these women to be so completely myself that I let them see the heinously ugly side usually reserved for family and Adam. The one that freaks out on planes and loses her ability to make basic decisions and screams in a small crisis.
I truly hope you are all that lucky.
4 comments May 21st, 2005