It was a hectic morning at the airport, after a motorcycle-car accident delayed my arrival. The shuttle was no where in sight, but I wasn’t worried because I had already printed my bag tags and TSA PRECHK boarding pass. However, the bag tag wouldn’t scan so I had to wait in line, only to be informed that my bag was too late to put on-board. It was still over a half-hour until departure, so I scampered through security to discover that my printed pass wouldn’t scan either. Also, the mobile app indicated that I would need to return to an attendant to re-print, and any access to a digital one was blocked.

 

Back at the Alaska ticket counter, we were already having unhappy discussions about re-booking a much later flight when I asked for a new pass and headed back for a second attempt with TSA. Once I finally got through that obstacle, I was about to be the last to board, when uniformed security officials pulled me aside and asked to check my laptop and phone. Finally, I got to a seat that was already taken.

 

My blood pressure is now back to normal, and I’m on my way to O’Hare, possibly without luggage. I will probably not be able to change clothes as anticipated for my 4:30 meeting with a relative in the Chicago suburb of Plainfield. I also apparently forgot to kiss my wife goodbye in that hectic time frame when I suddenly realized that the flight was an hour earlier, and bolted from the house in a bit of a rush. She did not know all of this was happening all prior to getting out of bed to go to work.

 

I woke up with the John Mayer song, New Light, stuck in my mind, and wrote a poem about it during my 4:30 a.m. run. (See Post #606). I get an occasional “ear worm” after listening to the radio, and find myself repeatedly singing it throughout the day. Rhyming words also roll around in my head, so I need to jot them down whenever I get the chance. That’s been the case, while I’ve been running these past few mornings.

 

My wife and I had a great weekend together, but I kept her up the night before with my snoring. It was the subject of yesterday’s poetic post #605 that was conceived during my morning run. We had gone to a Plate and Pitchfork dinner with friends who then spent the night. The Breathe-Right strip must not have worked, so I ended up on my back sawing logs. It was not the wine that caused this snoring problem, as is sometimes the case. The dinner hosts were stingy with the grape juice, spending too much on pitches about buying wine and feeding the hungry. We were happy to make a donation, but could have done with more plating and less pitching. The chefs were among our favorites, but some of their guests prepared mediocre dishes. We dined in the middle of a berry field, and the hot sun was hard on my eyes. It was our second outdoor culinary extravaganza of the week, but unlike the first event, the wine servers were asleep in the back. At least we couldn’t hear them snoring!