It Started Out Wrong But Turned Out Right

Was it a total absence of planning or was it a plan gone awry? If only I had set the alarm on my iPhone, I would have remembered. Without the phone’s audible prompting, the chances were slim-to-none that I would think about it again before it was too late. I have enough experience flying solo that I should have done it differently. I could have set the alarm and I should have set the alarm. I simply didn’t think about it.

 

Don’t hear me wrong. I’m not suggesting that I’ve become so dependent on the General providing gentle direction or instruction on what she perceives I need to do, that I can’t function without the structure, because I can. I am resistive to being dependent. At the same time, I know that no man is an island unto himself. We were created for connection and we were created for community. I embrace the concept of teamwork, but independence once lost is forever gone. I like making my own decisions, charting my own course, following my own schedule, exercising my own creativity and mostly, “doing it my way.” When you add all of that together, I have the potential to be a cranky old man if I don’t get my way.

 

After all, I’m 70-years-old. My daughter recently commented that she noticed someone on Facebook recently explained away my behavior by referencing the fact that I am a “70-years-old man.” She immediately had the thought: “What a rude thing to say.” It then hit her like a slap on the face that it was a statement of fact. Her dad really is 70-years-old. I know how she feels. I, too, am in denial. However, regardless of age, I am old enough to have the sense to come in out of the rain, not walk in front of moving automobiles, refrain from eating jalapeno laced Mexican food after 9:00 p.m. and the wherewithal to check in for my airline flight in a timely fashion. I know all of that, but sometimes it just doesn’t fall into place the way it should.

 

As it turned out, I didn’t remember to check in for my flight until about five hours after I could have first checked in and secured a place near the front of the boarding group. Because of my delay, even without knowing my number, I could forget about carrying my luggage onto the plane. The bin space would be filled before I boarded.

 

Under the auspices of “better late than never”, I went to the airline’s website and checked in for my flight. Wouldn’t you know it? It was worse than I expected. My boarding number was “B-65”. When you are “B-65” you don’t dare to hope for an aisle seat or a window seat either. The die is cast, “You are the man in the middle”.

 

To my good fortune there was an empty middle seat near the front of the plane on my left. The man occupying the aisle seat was looking at his iPad and apparently didn’t hear me ask: “Is the middle seat taken?” I had to repeat the question twice before he looked up. The plane was crowded. Of course it was crowded! I was number “B-65”. Once the man in the aisle seat stood to let me access the middle seat, I somehow snagged my backpack on something and as I pulled to get it free, I abruptly fell into the middle seat. It wasn’t a pretty landing and the upper part of my body momentarily invaded the space belonging to the young woman sitting in the window seat. I apologized by saying something about “being sorry for the crash landing.” She smiled and said it was okay.

 

Once the plane was completely loaded, the flight attendant oriented us to the safety features of the Boeing 737. I paid attention only because she varied for the regular script and had funny comments to make along the way. It was a welcoming variation from same ole, same ole.

 

Once the announcement was made that laptop computers could now be used, I took out my notebook and began crafting yesterday’s blog. After all, I had been in Chicago. Why not build on that theme? I looked to my left and the man in the aisle seat was watching HGTV on his iPad. I felt an immediate wave of envy. What a fantastic idea. It could reformat air travel for me. I looked to my right and the lady was reading a book. I refocused on my computer screen.

 

I had included the paragraph about living in a high rise on “The Magnificient Mile” and passing myself off to neighbors as a writer, when the lady sitting next to me and I engaged in conversation. I knew from the moment that I almost fell into her earlier that she was a kind person and I suspected that she was a talker, but she had been reading a book. I didn’t want to intrude. Now she was talking and I was interested in learning her story.

 

I can’t really recall how the conversation gravitated toward writing other than I mentioned I had been working my daily blog. She then asked, “Are you a writer?” Why not live out the fantasy? I responded: “Yes, I am a writer”. I think I added, “That’s not how I earn my livelihood, but writing is something I really enjoy.” However, I may have kept that part my secret. I may have only said that I was a writer. It felt good.  Just for the record, today is the third anniversary of my daily blog. I am not sure what constitutes being a writer, but I’ve got three years worth of life and laughter chronicled for my own benefit.

 

Somehow being a writer seems fresher and more exciting than identifying myself an old child welfare worker. Both are important, but crafting words and creating a story resonates with the creative side of my identity. The lady confessed that she, too, is interested in writing and has been looking at some options for book publishing.

 

At some point I asked why she was headed to Austin and she responded that she lives in Austin. She previously lived in Chicago, but now she lives in Austin. When she lived in Chicago, she lived of the 40^th floor of a high-rise very close to the Navy Pier. It was almost like she had looked over my shoulder and read the script from my blog. Her life was the life I was fantasizing embracing for three months. She is an artist, she writes, she works, she is a mother and she is a wife. But she spent most of her life in Chicago and now she and her family live in Austin. Do you care to guess which part? She lives in Southwest Austin in the Dripping Springs ISD. I was speechless. We are almost neighbors.

 

My next question was a logical next question. I asked: “What brought you to Austin?” Her answer was so profound that I asked permission to share it in my blog. She credited a question asked of her by her three-year-old daughter as the catalyst behind the family’s move from Chicago to Austin.

 

She went on to say that before she and her husband had children or even when their children were very small, living and working in Chicago wasn’t a problem. Her schedule was non-traditional. She was gone to work before her children were out of bed in the morning. Her husband is a stay-at-home dad, so childcare wasn’t an issue. She had a job she loved and once she was home around 7:00 to 7:30 p.m. in the evening, she devoted herself to quality time with her family. She played with the kids late into the night.

 

When her daughter was three year’s old, she asked her mother: “Mommy, When are you going to take us and show us where you live? We’ve never been to your house.” The recognition regarding her daughter’s confusion as to her family role hit her like a ton of bricks. The thought that her daughter didn’t understand that she lived with them was very unsettling. Consequently, life had to change.

 

Like I said, “She had a job she loved, but she was willing to leave it behind for the good of her family.” She also had an employer that loved her work, her work ethic, skill set, professionalism and expertise. In addition, her importance within the organization was highly regarded by the company. Why not be flexible and reformat expectations? She now works from home three weeks a month and travels to Chicago for the other week. It has worked out fantastically on all accounts.

 

She shared enough about her husband that now I want to meet him. I suspect we are kindred spirits. Like herself, he too is an artist and very musical (that’s not what we have in common). If there is a chink in the armor, he might be inclined to focus on his music all day without her input and gentle direction (the need for gentle redirection and structure is what we have in common). When she travels from home, she always leaves him a “To Do List” with three things on it. This week’s assignment included:

 

• Call the plumber. Of their four bathrooms, two are not working properly.
• Transfer their home owners and car insurance to a local agent
• A listing of where and when the children needed to be places comprised the third category of the list.

 

So as it turned out, my failure to check in for my flight on a timely basis landed me in the seat next to someone that almost lives in my neighborhood and has lived the dream that only I dare to fantasize. Can you imagine, the 40^th floor in a Chicago high-rise?

 

I have a new friend in Dripping Springs and for that I am grateful. I want to meet her family. They sound like my kind of people.

 

All My Best!

Don