I am on a plane to Iceland. It is supposed to be a 4.5 hour flight but we are grounded for an indeterminable amount of time. Recently, like five minutes ago, this blonde waif wearing illegal amounts of perfume, switched from her middle seat to the open one next to me. Just 'cause. I reason that God must hate me. I know I hate her. (The blonde, I mean.) My friends and I booked the trip a couple of months ago and then basically forgot about it. Actually, I forgot about it. They did not, as evidenced by the countless email reminders they sent asking for a copy of our hotel arrangements. I don't blame them for asking. I get busy; sometimes I forget things. They know this.
When I finally went to search for the reservation today, the day of our departure, I couldn't find the confirmation. I panicked. I booked us an alternate plan at the Hilton while I frantically tried to remember where I could have booked. I sent off a hurried correspondence and crossed my fingers.
Then, in a time before God hated me, the hotel miraculously emailed me back just as I arrived at the airport. It was what one might call a miracle. And by "one" I mean the same people who call things like having babies miracles.
So now I'm on this plane next to the girl with too much perfume, watching The Beginners on my iPad, and praying that Xanax wields its lovely power soon, and I find myself awake in a foreign country of volcanoes and grey wool sweaters that I never dreamed I'd visit.