Broken Foot and Airports

I am sitting at the gate for my currently delayed flight home as we speak. Apparently there is some electrical problem on the plane that they feel the need to fix before our flight takes off. I decided I was okay with that considering the alternative. Ya know…crashing. Which, rumor has it, we are not supposed to talk about that in airports, or the word BOMB. Because if you just so much as say bomb in an airport they are able to slap you in the face with a $5000 fine. Ask my brother, Brett, and my mom…they will tell you.

But don’t worry about the rules when you have a broken foot, they seem to excuse everything and have been incredibly kind to me since I got here. As I was getting out of the car, someone immediately came over and asked if a wheelchair would be easier for me than carrying everything with my crutches….uhh, obviously the answer is yes. I have not only been the clumsiest person ever this trip but I really, really suck at using crutches. It really is because I have flimsy arms, see previous post (I am making it a point to add more bicep and tricep work to my workouts).

After my wheelchair ride that took me to the front of security, yep, be jealous, I got right onto this mini motorized shuttle, which I swear I was going to fall off of, they are crazy drivers here indoors. We stopped to pick up some elderly people on the way to my first gate and my driver yelled at some people instead of using his horn.

At my first gate, I befriended a cowboy, probably about 70 years old whose 94 year old father had just died back in Baltimore. This cowboy talked to me a lot about his life and how he lived in Laurel, MD until he was old enough to join the service and has been in Texas ever since, with his wife, 3 kids, youngest of which is my age, and his dog I asked if he had a pickup truck and he said of course like I had offended him. I loved that. I could hardly understand a word he was saying because of his lack of teeth, my inability to see his mouth move because of his huge mustache, and his Texas accent he adopted when he moved here. But once I told him to slow down, we were better. Once he started complaining about Obama, which from him, I expect no less, I cut him off and mentioned having to go to the bathroom. Well, damn. Did that man not get right up and find me a wheelchair and then wheelchair me straight to the bathroom? What a doll. And then 15 minutes later when our departure gate changed, he did it again.

I will admit that people here really are nice, and this whole foot thing is a great conversation starter. Everyone wants to know how I did it. They usually look disappointed when I tell them I just tripped, so much so that I am debating changing up my story to the people I know I will never see again, let’s just see how far I can take it. Any suggestions?

Here at my second gate, when I just found out my flight was delayed, not one but two people asked if I was okay and asked if I needed anything. They were willing to go get food for me. I must look completely immobile or just stupid when in fact, I am just holding back a lot of rage that this flight is not on time. Not only that, but they put me in this special section on the opposite side of the rest of the people at the gate in a section reserved for customers with special needs and a huge handicapped sign...I knew you all would get a kick out of that.