Category: Complaining

I can’t tell you how many times I have heard someone say the words “I hate change.” Why is that? Yes, to both: why am I hearing it so often and why do people hate change much? Here’s why I ask – I just took a pretty intensive course on leadership and how to direct “my people” through changes. Basically it was all about how to hold their hands during that “transition” phase. Please. Six weeks of Be Sensitive to their feelings. Six weeks of Be Gentle with the speed of change. Six weeks of Be Patient. I aced the course because I just regurgitated the touchy-feely statements but, I’ll say it again. Pahleeease! Give me a freakin’ break. I’m tempted to warm up some milk and make sure everyone has a blankie on hand for sleepy time. If everyone were allowed to resist avoid change we would still be tapping out our love letters in dots and dashes.
Here’s the thing. Change IS hard. I’ll admit that. Change can be intimidating, especially when you don’t see the need for it, or can’t imagine the future any differently. But, consider the alternative. Same is dull. Same is same old-same old. I couldn’t imagine having the same job, the same schedule, the same life year after year. You know you’re really in trouble when your ex from three years ago knows where you’ll be on Any Given Thursday. What’s worse is when that ex is right…ALL the time. I don’t want someone to expect me somewhere because I’ve always been there. To be that predictable is pitiful. Pitiful and seriously sad.
I don’t have the same job I had six months ago. Traded it in for something a little more stressful, yet a little more stimulating. I don’t have the same relationships I did a year ago. Traded them in for deeper, more meaningful exchanges. I don’t listen to the same music I did two years ago. I’ve opened my ears to bands with names like Dumpstaphunk and JuJu and Sonny Landreth. I changed my mind about movies. I found a new Indian restaurant and discovered I actually like bananas now. I am in a transitional phase with my family. I guess you could say I am changing all the time. While I’m not always comfortable with change, I’m always looking forward to the new me.
One more example: someone very dear to me is saying goodbye to a life she has known for years and years. No. In my opinion she was born to have this life and she’s letting it go. Like hearing about a divorce of two really, really good friends I was shocked. At first. Then she said it: I. need. a. change. She’s assures me it’s for the best. Suddenly I see. Suddenly, I get it. Change is good for her and she is not afraid. For everyone else, I’ll bring out the milk and cookies.

FYI – like getting plants tangled up in my shoes, I am capable of snagging maps on the inside zipper of my purse. Good thing it wasn’t stuck on the boarding pass. You’ll soon see why (note the boarding pass just above the captured map):

On the way down to Tampa I needed to show my boarded pass once and relinquish it only to get on the plane. Boarding the plane was done in a haphazzard sort of way. I was group A #46 and when they called group A numbers 35-60 we just moo’ed our way on board. No big deal.
Not so on the way home. Tampa is tough. I needed my boarding pass four different times. I should have stapled it to my forehead. Really. I had it out while waiting in the winding, maze-like line. (That line reminded me of the lines at Six Flags only without the tvs and fun.) I’m not a seasoned traveler so I carefully watched the other passengers and followed their leads. Because of them, I knew to take off my shoes, have my picture ID ready and to go where I was told. But, after that I was a bumbling idiot. I didn’t know I needed the id  and boarding pass out for a third time at the security scanners. I had put it back in my purse (which was now going through the xray machine). The security guy wouldn’t let me walk through the gate without the pass, but made no move to retrieve my purse for me. I stood there rooted to the spot, confused as hell, wondering what to do. Passengers moved around me, shooting pitying glances my way. Maybe they were thinking Stupid. I know I was. Finally the security gate guy said, “come on through, BUT I need to see that boarding pass the second it comes out.” I practically sprinted through the gate and anxiously peered down the conveyor belt waiting for my bucket of shoes and purse to emerge. A trickle of sweat meandered down my back. My bare feet embarrassed me. As soon as the bucket started to show itself I reached in for it – I swear – only to facilitate the process and produce that boarding pass faster. “Don’t reach!” someone barked at me. “Okay!” I practically yelped and jumped back. If I was flustered before now I was a basket case. Finally, out came the bucket (on its own), out came my purse and, out came the boarding pass. Frustrated and extremely embarrassed I shoved it at the security guy who barely gave it a single glance then handed it back. What the fukc was that? I could feel my face go even redder. Suddenly, a voice behind me boomed “whose bag is this?” I turned around…of course it was mine. “I just need to look in here…” Mr. Security’s voice trailed off. Now what? I had dirty underwear, stinky socks…what could possibly be threatening (besides the odor)? A candle. A lavender candle. I apologized for it like an idiot and slithered away, hellbent on finding my gate. If there was ever a time for a shot of tequila, this was it. Make that a double shot. Three…four….
Finally, at the gate (the right one this time) I started to relax. I sent a few text messages to let people know I was on my way home and finally let myself breathe normally again. I didn’t even try to find my new boarding number sign (A45). However, when it came time to board the number process was much easier than the last time. Mr. Loudspeaker treated us like idiots, even taking the time to explain what numerical order meant. He wanted to make sure we knew 44 was directly ahead of 45 (who should be directly in front of 46). Duh. He must have gone over it at least a dozen times, telling us to talk to one another to figure out who stood where. Don’t be shy, he says. Riiiight. I was just praying no one recognized me from the security line. Like school kids waiting to go on a field trip we waited in a perfect line. 44 in front of 45 in front of 46. I felt like asking the guy in front of me, “hey. Wanna see my boarding pass?”

Southwest Airlines is trying to take their seating sorrows seriously. How do I begin to describe gate 4?
First of all, there are a bunch of poles everywhere. All these poles are topped with numbers. For example, I sit facing the one stating “36-40 41-45.” If I follow the logic of the poles I’m in the wrong seat. I should be one seat over…or something. I understand the thinking. I think. Rather than a free-for-all when group A is called (and that’s my group) we now have sections so, in theory, does that mean smaller free-for-alls?

I wrote the above on my way down to Tampa. My boarding number was A46. How wrong I was…on oh so many levels. First of all, and I’ll admit this clearly: I wasn’t at gate 4. I was at 5. I wrote all of the above while waiting at the wrong gate and I blatently blame it on the poles. At gate 4 I saw numbers 1-10, 11-15, 16-20, 21-25 but nothing beyond that. Walking further I saw the numbers start all over again. 1-10 and so on. So now I’m confused. Keep in mind, I’m looking up at the numbers and not at the gate numbers so I managed to walk past my gate. Obviously. Once I realized I had gone too far (when the numbers started over again) I circled back, but this time on the other side of the poles. Magically, there were the higher numbers I had been looking for. I sat down when I saw 36-40, 41-45. At gate 5.
My second mistake was thinking my numbers designated where you sat as well as how you boarded the plane. I joked with passengers around me that I hoped I wouldn’t get in trouble for sitting in the wrong waiting area chair. No wonder they looked at me funny. Boarding numbers are just that, b o a r d i n g numbers, as in, how you get on the plane. Don’t worry, Ms Klutz Me would give them more to laugh at. About 20 minutes later someone came over the intercom and started announcing the boarding of flight something-er-rather…to Baltimore. As in Maryland. Startled, I looked behind me only to see I was sitting at gate 5 and not 4. Oh hell. Pretending to need the ladies room, I asked someone close to me where it was. I could tell she was confused. We were about to board, she knows I’m A46, we’ve talked about this and now I want the ladies’ room??? Nevertheless, she pointed it out and watched me go, a bemused look on her face. I wonder what she thought when I never came back, nor boarded that plane to Baltimore?

I’m literally at a loss for words today. If I could climb into the attic of my mind, and you watched me, you would find me picking up stray thoughts, turning them over and over, considering them – weighing the weight of them, pondering their importance and, ultimately, putting them down again, not discarding, just avoiding. I have a few things up there in that attic. I am still in mourning over a quiet death. I am still not feeling 100% well. Both my heart and body are on the mend. It’s just taking a little longer than I expected. There is more.
I ran last night. While I am happy to have faced the Gerbil wheel again I know not to get too excited. I could fall off again just as easily as when I got on. I know myself. I’m still feeling an October hurt. I’m still nursing a December disappointment. 2008 hasn’t come quietly. But, the good news is I ran easily. I ran confidently. Rubber raced under my feet while I watched three miles tick by. Simply starting over.
Tomorrow I see a friend. Someone to listen to. I don’t want to talk about me. I’d rather forget me for a while. I’ll let the attic lay dark, let the thoughts sleep quiet. It will be nice.