We pulled back into the Miami port as the sun came up on Saturday...seven days after leaving on our first cruise together.
We finished packing our bags and took our final picture...
They wanted everyone off the ship immediately, so about 9 in the morning, we had to stack up our suitcases and head for the bus area. We boarded a bus that would take us to our home for the day: the Miami airport.
Okay. Here are a few things you should know.
I had just been on a cruise ship for an entire week, which was {as you've just endured reading about for the past many days} much fun! But as everyone knows, being away from home isn't the same kind of rest as being AT home, so I was a bit tired.
I hadn't slept for a good chunk of the week because of the aforementioned fan debacle.
I had only had one cup of coffee. {For you non-coffee-holics, this is a bad thing.}
I knew that when I arrived home at the end of the evening, I would be arriving home to NO hot water {this story yet to come in its entirety}, which, of course meant no shower and no laundry could be accomplished.
And while I wouldn't ordinarily tell you this on the blog, it did factor in significantly, so I will also tell you I had a nasty case of PMS.
You sort of get my frame of mind at this point, right?
So we settled in for the first part of our day in the lobby of a hotel in the airport. I was scared to sit there, knowing we weren't paying customers, but we were going to be in the airport for EIGHT HOURS, which meant I thought a little bit of time in a comfy chair might be okay.
Ryan played games.
I worked on editing my over 800 pictures.
And that's when the lady from the hotel came over and asked if we were ready to eat in the lounge. When Ryan told her no...we were okay...she said, "Well this lobby is for customers of the hotel and lounge, so if you're not either of those, you'll need to move to the real comfortable chairs around the corner."
I had just been kicked out of a hotel lobby {please keep in mind all of the aforementioned issues} which brought the ultimate in embarrassment. I made mental notes to never patronize THIS hotel. {HA. As if I could even afford it. They had concierge. I can't afford anything with concierge.}
We went around the corner to the "real comfortable chairs" {that lady is a
liar!!!!} and settled in for the rest of the day.
We actually were pretty fortunate. The chairs could have been worse {though I would not stoop to call them comfortable} and we had an outlet right there to keep our phones and laptops going. Ryan was sweet to purchase the 24 hour internet plan so we could both log on and catch up on blogs, Facebook, email, and all that. He watched a movie in his computer and I worked on various tasks on mine. We ate pizza and drank Starbucks and all in all, the day spent in the Miami airport wasn't so bad after all.
And to prove it:
Two hours before our flight, we packed up and headed toward security and I thought to myself,
Bekah, you've done a great job in not panicking today. You're calm, you're ready to get through security, you're ready to fly, you're not panicking, you're GROWING UP.
Oh how pride goes before a big. fat. fall.
So we got in line for security and got through the boarding pass/ID check with no issue. And therein came the first issue. I thought our gate was much farther down than it was when we began this adventure, so I had not yet pulled aside to drag my bag of liquids out of my carry-on to put them through the x ray belt.
I rounded the corner toward the belt and signaled to Ryan that I needed a minute to get into the suitcase to get out my bag...when I saw her.
The little girl {ten or so??} doing a face plant into a trash can.
Oh my word, people. My stomach is churning even TYPING this story to you.
One thing I cannot handle is the sight, sound, and/or smell of vomit. I mean seriously. Any one of those three and I am done. Absolutely done. Pull me up a trash can because I am next.
Apparently I was super fortunate that Ryan was walking first because he caught the whole show before she even got TO the trash can. He {in his ever helpful state} was trying to flag down someone to help the girl because evidently her mother was consumed with holding her hair back and her dad was not doing a thing besides taking up space.
And I, if you can even picture this, was trying to keep the eye closest to the girl shut, plug the ear closest to her, not breathe, talk to Ryan, AND dig in a suitcase while carrying a jacket and a purse.
I don't care how good you are. This cannot be done. It just can't.
He was still trying to flag down help and I was baffled as to why he wasn't pulling out some cape to shield me from the entire scene. {I'm nothing if not irrational in emergencies.}
I hauled everything onto the conveyor belt {literally shaking by this point from all the chaos and the newly-birthed fear that I am one step away from throwing up in the Miami airport}, unearthed my liquids, threw them and my shoes into a doggie dish and went through security.
As I'm still shaking and trying to reassemble all my belongings, I see the TSA agent say to another, "Can you help me get this suitcase? We have to search it."
Oh yeah.
It was mine.
The two of them - TWO of them - proceeded to haul that thing like it weighed 800 pounds. Oh please, ladies. I carry more weight than that to WORK every day. You do not need two people for this suitcase.
Ryan was still getting through security, and I'm at a side table, puke girl still in my view, shaking from head to toe, with a TSA lady gloving up to pull out my Bible, my underwear, and all my worldly possessions.
She picked up a bag and said, "What's in here?"
I burst into tears "Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd from some beeeeeeeeeeeeeachhhhhhhhhhhhhhhesssssssssssssssssss."
She gave me the same look I would have given me if we'd been flipped, but it was just eight straws past the final one. Ryan came running over, "What's WRONG???"
She gave him a look like, "This your wife? Man you're so outta luck." I said, "It's the saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnndddddddddddddddddddd."
He didn't see the same sense of urgency in the situation that I did, which only made me cry more.
Because, you see, I had so carefully gathered that sand for a Pinterest project and one look at that TSA lady told me she did NOT have a Bekah-appropriate appreciation for Pinterest.
She really was sweet, and she did not call over dogs or anyone bearing handcuffs and was kind enough to let me repack my own bag.
And that undid every shred of courage I had gathered within myself. I had hot flashes and stomach churns and had to text back home to some of my prayer warriors to get me through that last flight.
The flight, by the way, was storm-laden and Ryan got to experience the labor-like death grip through some of the turbulence.
I really shouldn't have watched that first season of Lost.
