I'm dirty. I'm sweaty. I haven't smelled this funky since I trekked through the jungles of the Yucatan. I tied my wet hair up in a bun at 4 this morning, and now, if I take the band out, it stays in bun shape. I stopped saying "thank you" 12 hours ago, babies make me scowl, and I haven't changed my socks for two days.
Welcome to the personal hell that is holiday travel.
Yesterday, as I arrived in Salt Lake City to board my connection to Philadelphia, I found out that my flight had been canceled. I bitched, I whined, I plead under pretty lashes and innocent little Asian girl eyes, but I could not get on a flight to the East Coast until today. Well - that's not true. I had the option of taking a flight back to LAX and then flying red-eye to JFK, landing at 7am. But the thought of dragging my dad out of bed at 4 to pick me up, plus the absurdity of flying back to California after I'd just come from there, was too much. So I spent my night at the Holiday Inn, and, 27 hours after I left my house, here I sit in Atlanta.
It could have been worse. I managed to score a fellow stranded passenger's voucher to the Holiday Inn - I originally got the icky Comfort Inn. I had all my stuff on me, and am quite used to hotel living. I had extra vouchers, and had [not very good] steak for dinner. I've been in SLC before, so for whatever reason, that was a comfort, and Holiday Inn had free wireless internet through the hotel. I might have had a nervous breakdown if I couldn't get access.
My diet has of course been for sh*t. Who's thinking about diet when you're rushing from one terminal to another - in not one but FOUR airports - hoping to get onto one standby or another? Cereal, sausage, steak, wine, German choco cake, Wendy's, and even the nasty little snack cheeses that they have on board (those cheap bastards). There goes my aspiration to detox over break.
Oh well. I'll soon be home with my mommy and my baby. And then I can begin my vacation proper.
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