HOLIDAY

I have just confirmed that I will be in seat 51 A on Virgin Atlantic flight 22 from Dulles tomorrow at 18:40 hours. I am surprised they let me on without quibbling about the virgin thing, but what they don’t know won’t hurt me. I am in the midst of a restrained wild enthusiasm about the trip, but my husband is in a funk. He just found out his attempt to fool the insurance company into filling two prescriptions for the little blue pill has failed. My cheerful, “But I’ll be gone for 10 days baby” doesn’t seem to be any consolation. When I said goodbye to my boss he told me to drink a lot of orange juice on the plane. I laughed right in his face and told him I would stick to water and alcohol. He’s become a bit more distant since I showed up with the ring, just the occasional suggestive remark, but he did ask if my husband was going along. When I told him no, he said to call him if I needed bail money. Surely he knows I can talk my way out of just about anything.

When I mentioned to my mother in law I was leaving on Wednesday she immediately advised me not to take any knives or swords along. I wanted to tell her that I would make do with my concealed handgun, but I restrained myself. She’s old, and they just moved her down to the more assisted section of the retirement home causing her great consternation. I am concerned about one thing. My passport picture doesn’t look a thing like me now that I am svelte, redheaded, and have an attitude. I have never been pulled out of the line for a search like my daughter seems to every time, and I am a bit nervous about proving I am the woman in the picture. I mean I don’t want to undergo a full body cavity search unless he’s really cute. No, I didn’t mean that. Under no circumstances do I want to draw the attention of airport security. My liquids and gels are all packed in my check on bag and I am not putting so much as a lipstick in my carry on. I have no one to impress on the flight and am hoping 51 B remains empty so I can sleep. Knowing Virgin’s propensity to keep the attendants busy with all night food service, I think I’ll fashion a sign to wear around my neck, “Do not feed the bitch.” I know, I’m sweet as pie, but they won’t know, and maybe I won’t be awakened from a sound sleep to be asked if I want another ice lollie when my watch says 1 AM.

Before I go, I want to tell you all about a scare I had last week that I didn’t want to share until now. I felt a sharp pain in my left breast Thursday the 12th. I did an exam, the same kind I do each month, and found what seemed to be a lump, but said nothing to my husband except about the pain. I went to the doctor on Monday, knowing he would tell me it was my imagination, but he told the nurse to mark the mass at “1 o’clock”. I sat stunned, thinking of bogies coming suddenly from the sky. He scheduled an appointment for Thursday the 19th. The x-ray tech felt the spot and said, “Oh, right there, okay” and sent me on to the ultra sound expert. She kept her face a mask, but finished after four quick snaps I could not see. She left the room abruptly, and I sat there in the semi darkness planning how I would tell my husband whose Mom died from breast cancer, how I would break the news to my sister who had a breast removed at age 31, how I would explain to my girl that I couldn’t come to see her, and yes, thinking a bit about funeral arrangements. After what seemed like a half hour she came back and said, “The radiologist doesn’t see anything different from your mammogram that was done in June. Suddenly it was good to be too stupid to remember what my boobs felt like from month to month. I called my husband on the way out and he confessed he had been encompassed by irrational fear since I mentioned the pain casually on Thursday.

So there you go, tempest in a teapot, imaginary crisis adverted, life returns to its normal peaceful chaos. I know this is a bit maudlin, but since life holds no guarantees for any of us, and tomorrow I’m getting in a steel box that is held 5000 feet in the air by what can only be magical spells, no matter how often I read Bernoulli’s principals, I do want to tell my readers and coconspirators how much I appreciate the support you have given me over the past year. You are all essentially strangers I met on this bus, but you have become my friends, cheered me on, critiqued me, made me think, and kept me honest. It’s only a whisper compared to how dear you have all become, but ladies and gentlemen, my sincere thanks to you all. With a bit of luck, dawn on Thursday will find me at Heathrow and my baby girl will take me directly to Covent Gardens to “The Sanctuary Spa”. A day there should get me over the hump of jet lag and off to a glorious round of fun in a very exciting city. I will be in touch, as I will be wired and posting by Friday unless I’m in whatever they call the lock up across the pond.