On punctuality and shaving my legs. And karma.
Today has been a series of good luck, close calls, and "wake up and pull yourself together" messages from above, including cops and flight attendants. It's not even 2pm yet.
And so I have resolved. I hear you, big picture and little bird on my shoulder. I will do better. At everything. Especially myself.
Seemed like a long shot when I woke up with a start at 5:41am, but totally worth the try when I was all packed 18 minutes later. I made my flight (like a boss!) and thought maybe it didn't matter that I hadn't showered in my 18 minutes of packing. Who would possibly care that I didn't blow dry and flat iron my hair? And surely I'm the only one who notices the peach fuzz all over my face? And I'm wearing jeans, so the lag time on shaving my legs is completely academic, right?
So I was feeling a-okay landing in Tampa, excited for the weekend and mostly looking for coffee. After five hours awake, I still hadn't had a drop of caffeine. And a little voice in the back of my head reminded me that my friends were surely already drinking. So I asked for Baileys in my coffee, and it was gone so fast that I had another. Sourpuss waitress be damned. Her bad highlights were probably giving her a headache, and who wouldn't get tired of waiting on airport drunks? I took a deep breath and tipped the full 20%.
Next stop, how could I possibly start the day without a bloody, picturing my friends starting the day with rounds of ZingZang bloodies as they caught up and replayed last night without me?
My bloody(ies) was(were) delicious. Just right. The timing was perfect. I slipped into boarding for my next flight so smoothly, just as the line moved forward. For one tiny little moment, I thought the stars were all aligned. Then, halfway down the gateway, I realized I didn't have my roll-along spinner. Dammit.
"Sososorryjumblemumbleplease? and I'llberightback!?" Who knew gate agents were such understanding folk? He told me, of course, come right back when you can.
A quick (not frantic, just efficient) buzz into my breakfast spot, but I couldn't stop the onslaught from my cranky waitress. "Where did you GO?! We waited and waited and waited for you (perhaps an exaggeration), and then we just had no choice. We waited as looooong as we could, and there was no other option. We had to call the police."
Gulp. "Oh (with an understanding/apologetic smile that couldn't block her vitriole)?" But really, the police? "Okay, of course. I understand. Wait, wait, please don't turn away right now--please, could you please suggest who I should talk to?"
"No. I guess you could talk to TSA."
"Oh. Okay, thanks." And I slumped, wondering whether I should abandon the silver spinner and run for my flight, just starting the calculations of what I *truly* needed for the weekend, when,
"Wait, wait. Hold on, it's okay, he just left with your bag. And I see him, and he's right over there with your bag." Thank goodness for kind hostesses. And double-thanks that I had noticed the Please Wait For Hostess sign. I'll skip right past that awkward Tampa Airport police officer conversation. His eyebrows alone did a great job of telling me how stupid to feel.
And so here I am, finally arrived, taking just a few minutes to let my hair and toenails dry (did you think I brought a hair dryer?) and put words together. I have sinned. There are universal roommate rules, mandates so true that that they don't need to be spoken, so obvious they are always respected. Examples: don't open the first or finish the last of a food, personals like toothbrushes and deodorant aren't for borrowing, and let's be square on the bills.
This may be the first time I have blatantly, brazenly disrespected (Webster agrees it's a legitimate verb now) roommate code. I had such good intentions. I would buy essentials during my layover, but did I really need to tempt fate by leaving the security zone to shop at Tampa's main terminal? I watched during the cab ride from the airport, but Key West is a funny place. I didn't see a Walgreens or CVS or Safeway or quaint corner store. And my good intentions of walking a few blocks or a few miles to find something faded away when I got to the beautiful rental house and texted my people I'd catch up with them soon.
And so I found myself tempted (is there a stronger word?).  I was disgusting. That horrid foul, so much that I could barely tolerate myself. And I knew I would be wearing a skirt and flip flops (clearly not the high fashion blog, ha!), and that I'm not sure exactly how long it's been since I shaved my legs (Colorado?? That was ten days ago...), and then I saw a razor already in the shower. Nevermind the roommate code, and that I'm not sure which one of my friends it belongs to, and that I only have true roommate status with one of the friends in this group. The urgency of the situation won, and I used the (cheap, no built-in lotion, hate it) razor.
Thankfully, Karma reminded me she's still around. I chipped off a few few little pieces of skin on my left leg, and then I sliced away a huge wound above my right lateral malleolus. This was not your average razor zinger. It was legitimate. Blood spurted. Spurted.  And several minutes later settled into a quite a drip. Dripped, dripped, and briskly dripped. And oozed across the floor onto my white shirt.  And continued bleeding while I gathered strength to pull the ribbon of my skin out of the razor. I couldn't leave it there, obviously. But it was far too long to be washed away by the shower (you know what I'm saying), so I had to gather strength to pull the WHOLE THING, like a snake, out of the razor. A stranger's razor.  Double ugh, and still bleeding.
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