Traveling Is Its Own Special Hell

Work was hectic all through the end of the year. Long, stressful days every day for weeks.

I made plans with a friend for a short vacation in January and looked to these few days as a relief whenever I started to consider a psychotic episode a perfectly reasonable way to handle the constant pressure.

When those plans fell through, I vacillated about going on vacation by myself.

I was so stressed at work I could've taken people's heads off over practically nothing. Some time away was probably necessary for long-term job security and to avoid becoming the abominable snowman in an office, my colleagues the hapless misfits strolling regrettably in my direction.

But I'd never gone on vacation by myself before. My last real, get-on-a-plane-and-go-somewhere-that's-not-New-Jersey vacation I had was to Acadia, Maine, years ago with an ex-boyfriend.

What would I do on vacation alone? Would I feel weird about it?

I was so unhappy, doing something different, anything different, had to be better than inertia.

I made arrangements for a few days at the Sivananda ashram in the Bahamas.

I figured this would be a good bet because I've been to the Sivananda ashram in upstate New York, so it wouldn't be an unfamiliar experience. And the ashram has a daily schedule with meditation twice a day, kirtan, which is upbeat singing, and other programs I thought would be beneficial to my state of mind.

Plus, it was in the Bahamas, an inherent bonus.

I made my arrangements, clicked "checkout" on travelocity, and didn't look back.

I waited until the night before to pack. I planned to bring only my carry-on and yoga mat bag so I wouldn't have to check anything. I always want all my stuff with me in case I get pinged with loneliness or the panic of oncoming loneliness and want to be able to reach for something familiar for comfort.

I placed some magazines and trail mix in my carry-on and hoped this would do. I also packed shampoo, body wash, conditioner and other tolietries I didn't want to have to buy there. I thought I remembered hearing the no-liquids-on-the-plane thing had been rescinded.

I set my alarm clock for 3 am to make my 6 am flight out of Newark airport. I figured this would give me plenty of time. Newark isn't far and at that hour in the morning, how long could it take to get through security?

Long, it turns out.

I got onto the shortest line and stood there. We didn't take a step while all the other, longer, lines we're moving at a reasonable pace.

Why hadn't I left earlier? Planned for the worst-case scenario, or even a less-than-perfect scenario? I'd made my timeline as though every step of the way would go without a hitch. When does that ever happen?

I heard a security person say no liquids on the plane more than a few ounces.

My bottles were at least eight ounces, each.

There was no time to check my bag now. It was throw away my shampoo and stuff or miss my flight.

What's worse? Throwing away money, or time, which is basically money.
 
I decided it was worse to waste time so I threw away my shampoo.

It pained me to do it. I added up the money. Eight dollar Burt's Bees shampoo. Eight dollar conditioner. Eight dollar body wash ...stupid, stupid, stupid.

5:41. The line was crawling. It was unbearable.

Finally I got to go through security. Apparantly, there was more liquid in my bag. I'd forgotten I'd packed a bottle of mositurizer. Coconut moisturizer. The security lady told me she had to throw it out, and it looked expensive too.

It is, I said, as she tossed it in the trash.

At least I was out of security and on my way to the gate.

The empty gate.

I asked at the desk about my flight.

Are you Marcella? We were looking for you. It just left.

Left? What time is it?

6:01.

6:01? Can't I still get on?

It's gone.

At 6:01?

I'd thrown money in the trash to make this flight and still missed it.

I stood there, looking at the airline lady. The airline lady stood there looking back at me.

I didn't know what to do so I put my arm on the counter, my head on my arm, and cried.

"We'll get you another flight," the lady said.

It wasn't the flight.

It was I couldn't trust myself to get anything right.

One minute late.

It reminded me of the time I took a surf lesson and let the surfboard introduce itself to my face. I'd put my face into the sink and let the blood pour out of my nose.

This time I put my head down and let the tears pour out of my eyes.
 
When I picked my head up again I made another flight. It would leave in fewer than two hours.

I went back to security to the lady who looked at my moisturizer like it pained her to throw it out and asked for her help.

She went into the trash for me and collected my stuff. Thankfully my things were in plastic bags and the cans were empty. I was apparantly the only person going through security with bottles and bottles of liquid.

I checked my bag and felt lighter.

I made my way to the gate and waited. With no trail mix. No reading material. Nothing to distract myself from thinking about my mistakes.

I told myself it was no big deal. It all worked out fine. But I kept crying anyway. A hand reached over my shoulder with napkins. I took the napkins and thanked the man without looking back. He told me he hoped it would get better.

If he only knew how little it took for me to fall apart.

Before I left I asked Krishnadas about making mistakes. He said there are no mistakes. A blade of grass doesn't move without God's will.

I hoped it was true.