Reporting to you live from the Harrisburg International Airport without any liquids, gels or lotions.
Dang dang dang. I missed my fricken fracken fricken airplane departure. You don't want to hear about it. I was sad. I was mad. And I was bad.
How did I find myself in such a very uncharacteristic predicament involving a lapse in my uncanny navigational abilities? That, my friend, is a complex question.
Officially, I lay the blame on my trip. I can't blame the burial plans of Anna Nicole Smith or the judge who broke down in tears. Nope. I can't blame my vastly improved bag-check acumen. I can't blame my vials of liquids, gels and lotions because they were left at the Hampton Inn in York, Pa. I actually said goodbye to my depleted vials of liquids, gels and lotions as they languished strewn about in the bathroom.
So, what's to blame for my current botheration at the great Harrisburg International Airport with icebergs piled up on the tarmac? I blame the trip. Pure and simple. Case closed, I think, maybe. Well, sort of.
As I see it, if I never traveled to the Quaker state of Pennsylvania, there's no way in hell I would've missed that airplane which is probably in the middle of Pennsylvania by now. No freaking way I'd have missed it. Damn you, trip trippy trip.
I'm pissed at my trip, okay? Let me be pissed. My trip sucks. My trip made me get up at four. When it gets right down to it, my trip is a good-for-nothing son of a bitch. Truth be known, my trip owes me a large, large latte.
But you know what? It's time to own up to my trip, too. It's time I look inward, take a li'l responsibility for my trip. It was I who was on my trip -- that's something we all need to remember. My trip didn't force me to do anything. Or maybe it did. I don't know anymore.
Look, my nerves are fried after hanging out with the York locals at the Harp & Fiddle Irish Pub last night only a block away from the first Continental Congress. Things are a li'l out of sorts right now.
And you know what I do when I'm feeling a li'l out of sorts? I look at the facts, that's what.
Fact: piloted aircraft and their crews will take off without me if I'm not on board.
Fact: if I make a split second decision that involves a missed freeway exit, I will add time to the time required to drop off my red economy-class car with bald tires.
Fact: If missing the exit means I can't turn around for 17 miles because of a fascinating Turnpike configuration, it will take me an additional 40 minutes to get to the airport.
I'm not one to argue facts. But before you begin to question my character ... hear me out: to miss my airplane by a matter of sixty seconds is actually pretty amazing. I'm pretty amazing. Awesome, really. I better go. I'm on standby for some air travel to Atlanta, which involves a departure in like five minutes.
