My “nights and weekends” job means I spent an average of 140 days a year away from home. I travel most weeks, and get lots of practice. With all that practice comes expertise and comfort with the systems of travel; I’m actually pretty good at traveling. Most trips rumble along with very few bumps in the road. Recently though, I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad travel day. The universe was clearly out to get me (at least it felt that way).

Writing is therapeutic for me; it helps me gain perspective and laugh at myself. So here you go: the story about the day when everything was fine. Eventually.

I left home for this particular trip with enough time to drop off an Amazon return, put gas in the car, and even go through the car wash. Traffic to Denver was light and easy to navigate. The airport garage claimed to be full, which in Denver airport vernacular means there are plenty of spaces if you’re willing to ignore the “garage full” sign and take a ticket anyway. (Don’t tell anyone!) I snagged a spot in my favorite row, about 20 feet from the door to the terminal. Woo hoo! I was on a high, feeling like this was going to be one of those amazing travel days where everything goes perfectly—all the signs were there.

I hit the TSA facial ID security line with the confidence of hundreds of trips under my belt, only to discover that for some unknown reason, that golden ticket designation hadn’t made it to my boarding pass. What?!? Switch to the CLEAR line (which really wasn’t any longer) but grumble under my breath anyway. Take a deep breath. Everything is fine.

I’m back in my groove as I wait for my turn to drop my items on the belt and even have enough grace to let the woman beside me go ahead of me in line through the metal detector. And then I get the dreaded “beep beep” as I walk through…randomly selected for screening. Sigh. Switch over to the body scanner, stand on the footprints and raise my arms over my head like the professional traveler I am, wait for the scan and…it decides it doesn’t like the pocket on my pants. Heavier sigh. Wait for TSA to find a female agent to pat me down. There isn’t a female agent nearby. Wait some more, sigh some more. Watch my bag hold up other bins on the belt because it made it through security much faster than I did. Become moderately frustrated that my perfect travel day is not proceeding as I had planned. Remind myself that everything is fine. (But I’m not sure I believe it.)

TSA finally locates a female officer, we finish the screening, I retrieve my bag and take two deep breaths. I decide that I will walk off my grumpiness rather than take the tram and head toward my gate with purpose, skipping the moving walkways so I can put in a little more effort and reap the endorphin benefits of a higher heart rate. Ok. Everything is fine.

Except I’m still sorta wrapped up in my mad when I get to my gate, so I grab a snack (maybe I’m hangry?) and walk to the end of the concourse to the small outdoor area. I spend a few minutes soaking up some sun and fresh air, eat a few bites and take three deep breaths. I tell myself: this moment is good. Everything is fine.

My flight is on time, I am randomly seated next to a coworker headed to the same meeting and make a new friend. I learn that her travel day really has been a disaster of canceled flights and many, many hours in airports yet she’s cheerful and optimistic that things are going well now. I get work done on the flight, we land early at our destination. Things are turning around—everything IS fine!

And then my new friend and I miss the public transportation train by a few seconds because the escalator to the platform is under construction, signage isn’t clear and the elevator, once we find it, is slooooow. We wait 20 minutes for the next train, it is getting late, and once it arrives, I pick our seats and manage to choose ones that are facing backward. Through all of this, my new friend remains cheerful and optimistic. I try to rally and match her mood. I’m getting tired and the crankiness is returning. I remind myself: everything is fine. Kinda.

As we exit the train shortly before midnight, we learn that the indoor walkway to the hotel is also under construction, so we head to surface streets to navigate. We find that several other people on the train are also co-workers that we haven’t met before, the weather outside is lovely, and there is a spirit of camaraderie as we get our bearings and walk the hilly streets with suitcases in tow. We discover that everyone but me is staying in one hotel, I’ve chosen the other because I wanted the “points” associated with that brand, so we wave goodbye at the corner and I continue on alone. It’s late but I am really close to sleep. Everything is fine.

I get to the check-in desk, wait for the person on duty to wrap up with the person ahead of me, step confidently up with my ID and credit card in hand, waiting for the “thanks for being a titanium member!” greeting and a quick handoff of keys. I am SO close to a bed and sleep! And then I learn that my brand loyalty number wasn’t associated with the reservation, they’ve oversold the hotel, and since I am arriving so late, they’ve already given away my room and moved my reservation to the other hotel. Internally I am thinking: “Grrr…curse words!” Externally, I’m pretty cranky, too. I brush off the offer for someone to walk me to the other hotel through the connecting tunnel and stomp off to find the way myself. I sure don’t need to be in anyone else’s company right now, especially not an employee of the hotel that knew how to take a reservation, but sure didn’t know how to keep that reservation! I am so fit to be tied that I can’t even start my three-breath calm down mantra and I wind up muttering repeatedly: everything is fine, everything is fine, everything is fine.

I get to the connecting tunnel after navigating through some hotel construction only to find the door requires a hotel key card after midnight. Which I don’t have. As I stand there trying to work up my energy to return to the front desk, I spot several teenage kids heading my way in the tunnel and manage to get through the locked door as they pass by me going the other way. Whew. Ok, ok. Everything is fine.

I find the front desk in the neighboring hotel and wait in line for the single person on duty to help someone else, there when I arrived. A friend is walking through the lobby and finds me with a hug, sharing sympathy for the crazy day. She keeps me company as I tiredly wait for my turn. Everything is fine.

Maggie on a much better travel day, 2012.

As the spot opens up to check in, I spot a teenager out of the corner of my eye, cutting the line in front of me. “There’s a LINE!” I say in a sharp voice. And the poor kid, who got the full brunt of my “mom voice” looks like she might cry. Oops. Well, I sure didn’t mean to do that. I let her go in front of me and tell my friend that I’m not sure what is wrong with me. Finally, finally, I check in, get my keys and find my room. I lay on the bed, take a few deep breaths. Everything is fine. Or it will be.

After a few hours of sleep, a cup of coffee, and a good talking-to with myself about my attitude, I could see the whole day differently. It wasn’t actually a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad travel day. It was a perfectly ordinary travel day sprinkled with a handful of inconveniences (and an increasingly dramatic narrator). Everything was fine. And everything is fine.