I thanked myself for having packed everything last night, including having laid out clothes to wear, because when my alarm went of at 5 am I was really not awake. As I wrestled with twisting my legs and hips through my fabric rings of trip-hazard (jocks) my phone rang loudly. It was my Dad. Who died? I was literally on my way to the airport. Famous people having been dropping like flies at Nanna and Pop’s house at that electric blue thing that makes a satisfying strong electrocution sound; a colleague in Toronto died unexpectedly two weeks ago; now Dad was calling me at 5 am. It must have been my step-mother. I could book a flight to Sydney and go to the Virgin gates instead of Air New Zealand. It would work out.
I stood up, momentarily celebrating having got my undies on without having fallen over, hit my head on the cupboard and died from a traumatic epidural haematoma. I braced myself, and saw my clothes laid out next to my carryon under the window, and the undies I was meant to have worn. Where did I get my current pair from? Was it the floordrobe? Would Daniel notice? Dad started to talk. “Glen!?” he sounded a little panicked. But nobody had died. He just hadn’t read my email properly from Thursday when I asked if we could visit in February after a conference in Sydney and had realised he’d be overseas when he had agreed we could visit. No I hadn’t booked my flight yet. I still didn’t have any pants on. My phone alarm started ringing, in my ear, over the top of Dad’s excited explanation, very loudly.
I clambered into the car, worried I’d forgot something, which I had but it wasn’t anything worth turning back for. Dan dropped me off at the terminal and then sped back home to bed. I began to wake up as I waited to check in (I hadn’t been able to check in online probably because my ESTA had been due to expire when I’d booked the tickets to the U.S.A. and my details needed updating). The queue (of one man in front of me in the premium line) took forever (about 10 minutes) as there was a family in front consisting of a large-bottomed woman with three small-bottomed (so far) children; the youngest of which was tagged almost like a bag and I wondered if he was about to get chucked onto the conveyor belt too. Weirdly I got flagged at customs at the automated gate and had to personally be identified as myself. I haven’t looked in a mirror yet. Maybe I should have done my hair.
If I can stay awake now I’ll definitely fall asleep on the 12 hour flight from Auckland to San Francisco. Time for coffee.