Traveling Solo

Ben travels a lot for work, and he’s good at it. He rearranges flights and only packs one carry-on. He volunteers his seats and doesn’t worry when flights are delayed. He’s pretty professional when it comes to flying, and doesn’t understand why my blood pressure shoots through the roof every time I book a flight.

I only fly with true confidence when with a partner, and totally stress out when alone. I will quadruple check my boarding pass, count and recount my bags, park myself in the closest chair to the gate entrance, and ask the flight attendants ten times if I really am on the right flight.

I usually call Ben from the airport, at some point, in a mild to moderate panic that slightly borders on hysteria. It’s inevitable.

Last Friday, I couldn’t find my flight and, therefore, couldn’t print off my ticket. I tried to check in with Delta instead of Northwest. Oops.

I then waited in the wrong security line before reaching my gate looking even more frazzled and disheveled than earlier (if that was possible). Ben called as I quietly gathered my thoughts and waited by the gate.

He said, “While you’re there, you should try to volunteer your seat, then get a voucher, and then reroute yourself to Lexington or possibly Cincinnati. Maybe you can get a direct flight.”

Oh, really. Really? That’s the best idea for me? I barely survived CHECK-IN, squeaked through SECURITY, barreled down the hallway and took out a small family of four JUST to get to my gate on time. And, now, I should REROUTE myself?

I. Don’t. Think. So.