I hate being late. I hate being late for flights. I hate being late for flights that are international and are taking me to a family wedding where I will see my little sister for the first time in over three years. I REALLY hate being late for flights that are international and are taking me to a family wedding where I will see my little sister for the first time in over three years when it's my husband's fault.
I'm not sure if it's because he's a Florida Cracker and the heat down here makes him move slower or he just simply has no regard for time, but he is late for just about everything. It drives me absolutely insane!
A few months ago we were scheduled on 12:10 p.m. direct flight from Fort Lauderdale to Toronto. We are about 20 minutes away from the Fort Myers airport, but opted for the direct flight out of Lauderdale which is about an hour and forty five minutes away. Flawed logic perhaps, but my husband doesn't like "unnecessary layovers". Leaving our house at 9:00 a.m. in my opinion was too late, but that was the plan. The plan that did not come to fruition.
As I shuffled kids off to school, shuttled the dog to the Wigglebutt Inn, dropped car seats and kid gear to our friends who were watching our kids and ran around like a crazy person, cleaning for our cleaning lady he lay in bed trying to collect himself.
I initially left the house feeling positive about our pending departure. Things were looking up. He'd packed his suitcase the night before, a first for him. Upon my return from my whirlwind tour of the north end of town I found him on our bedroom floor, in his boxers doing the Perfect Push Up after completing a "man-scaping" session. He had shaved all his necessary parts and pieces but had yet to hit the shower. It was 9:30 a.m.
To prevent myself from coming completely unglued, I walked across the street to ask our neighbors to keep an eye on the house while we were gone. I took to the outdoors to distance myself and instantly started texting friends and family who know all too well what I was dealing with.
By 10:00 a.m. we were pulling out of the driveway and I was informed gas was needed in order to get us across the Alley. I sat in silence, speechless and in shock from his complete disregard for my increasing anxiety. I don't remember what he said to me after the gas tank was finally full, but he tried to use his humor to diffuse the situation. I laughed, but turned slightly psycho.
Here's how it went down.
Me: Do not talk to me. Do not try to be funny and make me laugh. Your funny guy routine isn't going to make this situation better. I am so pissed off I could spit. I don't care how you do it, but you will get me on a fucking plane to Toronto today!
Him: You know you can't stay mad at me for long.
Me: You're probably right, but I'm going to be mad a lot longer than my usual 10 minutes. It could be days. Just don't talk to me.
11:35 a.m. we arrive at the Hibiscus parking garage with not a parking spot in sight. We pull up to the airport entrance. I get out and book it to the security gate and attempt to get in line but they are not equipped to scan boarding passes from a phone. I B-line it to the airline desk and ask for my boarding pass to be printed. I was immediately told by the super friendly female staffer (BITCH) I wouldn't be allowed on the flight because it was closed an hour ago. I literally burst into tears. There must have been something special in my eyes that day as she instantly turned into the nicest person on the planet. She printed my boarding pass and my husband's pass but wouldn't let me have it since he needed to show his passport.
I ran to security madly texting the man of the hour the details of what he was to do. With my luggage in tow, tears a flowing I ripped off my boots and gently tapped people to see if they would let me move ahead of them. Most did. And those who made comments about how they were going to miss flights as well, I quickly replied, "Then get in on the action and come with me!".
Once I cleared security, I bolted boot-free to the gate. It was 12:08, the gate area was packed. The plane hadn't even stared to board. All I could think about was what a snatch the lady at the counter was about me not making the flight, the flight was closed, you'll never make it, blah, blah, blah! I was going to make the flight, I was on my way to the Big Smoke. My husband however, was a different story.
12:08 p.m. after multiple attempts at calling and texting him, I see him saunter up to the gate. I wanted to jump over all the overly tanned Canadian cruisers that were waiting to go home and strangle him, but my conscious got the better of me and exerted some self control.
Him: Hi Honey! See, I told you we'd make it.
(keep in mind, I'm surrounded by 60 something retired Canadians who have just returned from a 2 week cruise)
Me: You are one lucky son of a bitch! You have a horse shoe up your ass. Don't you EVER f*$&ing do that to me again!
Him: Ahh, but it's the thrill of traveling...
I can honestly say, that I have never been so pissed at my husband in my life.
Despite the rocky start to our trip, we had an amazing time away. Travel since has improved slightly. He manages to get most of his pre-travel rituals complete prior to departure, but he loves to push the envelope.
Now I just lie about our flight times.