How Bad Do You Want It?

They'd written me off. I had ceased to exist in their minds. The shock on their faces when I came running up, barefoot and sweaty, and declared that I was there for my flight was the kind of look Hollywood can't reproduce. I dared to dance with LAX and I won. But let's back up, this story started a little over twenty hours ago (early today... the longest June 15th ever) when I arrived at Sydney Airport and found out that our flight was going to be delayed. The volcanic ash from Chile was messing with the flights to the south and west of us and as a result, the gorgeous Airbus 380 that had been intended for our flight got sent to Cape Town instead. As a result, all the catering was wrong for the 747 that had been sent to our gate.

By the time we landed at LAX, we were more than two hours late. By the time I got off the plane, the first boarding call would have been made for my American Airlines flight to JFK. By the time I got through customs the folks in first class would have been seated and sipping on a cool beverage and calling for the head of a pig.  By the time I sweet talked my way to the front of the security line and past the "you've been randomly selected for a pat down" the final call for my flight at the other end of the terminal had been made. I grabbed my stuff and began sprinting barefoot from gate 30 to gate 49 and am sorry to say scared some women and children along the way. So, with my TOMS in hand and sweat pouring down my face, I arrived to find that the flight was closed, my beloved aisle window seat have been given away to a small Ukrainian woman, and they'd rebooked me on a later flight. But, not to be denied, I played my brand new trump card that I just received in my inbox this morning "I'm Platinum.  So, since I'm here so I am going to be on that flight."

So now, as I type this, I have two large burly gentleman on either side of me that were not too happy to see me as the final passenger walking down the aisle and letting them know I was going to try and squeeze all 6'3" and 205 lbs of me into the 18 inches that separated their elbows, otherwise known as 30E.

But, the great news in this story is that I made my flight because there is nothing that I want more once I board a flight back to NYC than to see the skyline from the back of the taxi and get home.  And, if I have to name drop, play on the sympathies of old women, and wave my newly minted AA Platinum card around to do it, I will.