Stuck at an airport

This weekend I am headed to NYC, but alas, I have to leave Hobby Airport first. We’re currently two hours into a delay because, much like the rest of the past two months, the weather is nuts, and we can’t take off. Thank goodness they didn’t close the cabin door because we were allowed to exit the plane while the lightning (hopefully) passes. In lieu of withstanding the child behind me kicking my seat, I hopped up and made my way through the terminal, now sipping a Pappasito’s margarita and blogging. Because why not?

Because while I whine and roll my eyes at the weather and inconsiderate parents, I squash my excitement for this trip. By complaining to you, dear readers, I’m taking up space that I could be using to tell you about the awesome things I get to do this weekend. I’m seeing Hamilton, for crying out loud, HAMILTON! And I get to see my best friend Alex! And spend time in one of my favorite cities! Yet here I sit, seething in Gate 49 at the woman sitting next to me who can’t seem to speak softer than a scream.

My distaste also replaces immense sadness and heartache. Before I boarded, I received a text from my mother informing me that one of our family friends had died unexpectedly. He was (was, how disturbing to now use that tense) my parents age and leaves behind kids who I grew up with. But instead of being overcome with grief and empathy, I choose to focus on my own selfish dissatisfaction, because it hurts less.

Why type this out? Not to depress you or make you jealous (believe me, I’ve watched people post on Facebook about seeing Hamilton, and it stings). No, much like the previous reasons placed before you, this post is for me and my own mindset. Sometimes it takes word-barfing to realize how incredibly ignorant you can be. 

I have returned to the plane, and the active child behind me is taking a nap. My margarita has made me drowsy, so perhaps I, too, will sleep on the plane and arrive in glorious New York. There are SO MANY BLESSINGS around me. I hope I see that more clearly.

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