The floor felt like a cold familiar tale next to my cheek as my head lay on the laminated tile of the Indianapolis airport. I could feel the drool start to seep out of the side of mouth. I kept my eyes closed, almost in protest that this was actually happening to me. After what seemed to be several minutes that passed, I heard the muffled screaming from about 50 feet away and started to quietly repeat to myself “This isn’t my life. This isn’t my life.”
Four hours before, I woke up in an unfamiliar bed. I rubbed the sleep and Vodka Redbull from my eyes and saw that I was at Hotel Sax Chicago. OH- I slept here on purpose- YES! This is good news. I was leaving for a tradeshow this morning. Flight leaves at 7:45AM. It was 6:45AM. NO- this was bad news. The night before starts to flash through my end as if I was watching myself on a Red View Master Toy, only its not the Flintstones, its me and I’m drinking. NEXT SLIDE- I am with my friend Christina at Crimson. NEXT SLIDE-We are laughing. NEXT SLIDE- she is on my back spider monkey style trying to take my phone away and I am spinning in a pathetic attempt to get her freakishly strong African American body off of me. I completely ignore the fact that Christina is missing and head to the airport.
Despite still being completely wasted, I am the most functioning person in the airport security line. I am barefoot, shoes in hand, laptop in plastic bin ALONE, purse and coat laying down in another plastic bin, toiletries all under 4 oz. safely sealed in a Ziploc bag no bigger than sandwich size laid gently on top of carry-on. I mean seriously- how hard can it be people. Since the line is moving at a glacier pace, that I decide that managing the security line is going to be the best way for me to catch my flight. From the beginning of the line-
“Yellow Haired Lady- yeah, you. Take off your belt and shoes.”
“Tall man in colored shirt. Empty your pockets and your wallet goes in the bowl, not the tray”
“Short Asian girt- laptop goes in separate bin. Separate Bin. SEPARATE BIN!!!”
Since this is moving the line along and I do enjoy positions of power, I now give directions to the people behind me. Not because this is going to make the line move faster for me but more in attempts of a public service for all of the other non-idiot travels trying to get off the ground on time. I sprint through the airport. I am a gisele. I am a cheetah. I am a crazy, intoxicated Mexican with no shoes on screaming at people to get out of the way. Sweaty and out of breath and kind of nauseous, I am the last person to board my flight.
Once in the air, the hangover starts to set in. You all know this feeling. The wide awake hangover. It’s the worst. I create a mastermind plan- if I can manage to keep a buzz for a little longer, I can go to the hotel and sleep until the tradeshow. I immediately order a vodka soda. This could have possibly been the smallest vodka soda in the world. I order another one. With a very Midwesten, non-descriptive dialect, the flight attendant says, “Ma’am, this is a 1 hour flight.” I stare at her, not quite understanding what she is saying. I repeat my order and she says “Ma’am, I’m not sure if you will be able to finish it before we land.” To which I reply, “In that case, let me have two more just in case we start to descend and the seat belt sign goes on again.”
To share a rental car, I am waiting for an industry associate to call me when his flight arrives. I’m starting to feel sweaty and sick again so I walk into the nearest Chili’s and order a double tall. After two of those bad boys and several explanations to the bar tender that I’m really not drinking alone at 10AM- I am waiting for someone, I grow impatient and go to check my phone. Which reminds me… where is my phone? I look in my purse. No phone. I look in my luggage, no phone. I panic and dump out all of my belongings in the middle of the Indianapolis Airport Chili’s. No phone. Great.
I am thundering through the terminal, dragging behind me a wheeled, yellow carry on bag, laptop case on top, and purse in hand. Each step towards the car rental area increases my anger by 10%. How stupid can I be? Where the fuck is my phone? How the hell am I suppose to get someone to rent me a car? About 6 steps out of the bar and just as I am about to beat myself up a little more, my right ankle gives away from my 4 inch heels and the world slows down. I can feel my old friend gravity gloating in victory as my knees hit the ground with the force of… well… the force of a 5’8 inebriated Latin girl. I feel an immediate burn in my left knee as the friction of the skid tears through my brand new pants. My finger tips release the handle of my bag and I watch it, along with my laptop, roll slowly away from me. I close my eyes.
The screaming was a random airport lady yelling “ARE YOU OKAY? ARE YOU OKAY?” I mean, seriously. How bad does someone have to fall for a complete stranger to come running over, screaming in the middle of a public place? As she helped me up, she explained that this type of thing happens to her all the time. She goes on to say that she falls EVERYWHERE she goes. I thanked her at first and then the more she spoke, the more I stood there and judged her. What kind of person falls all the time? I mean, really? At least I only bite it when I’m hammered at 10AM in an unfamiliar city along in an airport in front of the Chili’s. What a loser.
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