I do not remember the last time I was this sick. Sunday night I felt so miserable. Sitting in LAX in those uncomfortable pleather chairs was the longest eight hours of my life. The chairs had armrests so you couldn't even lay down. I was so mad those armrests. I wanted to lay down so bad. I wanted to be in an actual bed with fleece blankets and a pillow. So, so cold. I couldn't sleep. My legs felt so restless, tired and achy as if I had been running for miles. I rocked myself back and forth in my chair to loosen then up. It didn't work. My eyes were burning. I felt weak. The routine throughout night was the same: Crouch myself into a new position, sleep for an hour, wake up, look at the time, groan at how little time has passed, find a new uncomfortable position, repeat. I told myself "When you get on the plane, it'll be ok." But the plane was all the same. This time, wedged in-between Sally and a random lady, I had less room to fidget. I thought was I was going to die.
It was a less than ideal ending to a pretty cuhrazy trip. Who knew we'd end up having to take Amtrak in Cali? Who knew we'd have to transfer? Who knew that certain things would happen? But really, this is the only way we know how to end things, right? This is what makes the trip all that more memorable. This, not the wax museum and not downtown SF, is what we'll be talking about thirty years down the road.
As a wise man once said:
"...just another twist in the plot. ...everything is perfect."