Late Friday night. I got off the plane, more like staggered off the plane, and made a beeline for the Southwest counter. I was in Denver and already gearing myself up for the words, “Your connecting flight left 30 seconds ago,” and was visualizing my walk through the strange airport with my heavy red bag, down to the nearest information desk where I’d have to find a way to ask about the cheapest, closest hotel without sounding pathetic (clearly, this is what mattered most at the time- what the information desk lady thought of my financial situation).
So when Southwest lady (let’s call her Carol) hung up the phone and said the magic words, “They’re holding the plane. Run.” I did as I was told. I clutched my laptop bag to my chest and I ran for Gate 45, all but sliding through the gate door as it was starting to close.
It’s now Sunday morning and I’ve already had an incredible amount of beer (both pulled and homemade), wandered through a greenhouse filled with fresh flowers, eaten freshly baked bread, crab dip by a waterfall, seen the Lilac City Rollergirls smoke the Tacoma Trampires, and watched a bunch of octogenarians practice their ballroom dancing in the basement bar of a Quality Inn to the two dudes who make up Big Hair Revolution. All with two people I’ve come to adore despite their insistence on living an adventurous life, sometimes thousands of miles away from my own. Jen’s house is filled with her creative projects (her refinished furniture, dangling homemade jewelry, that homemade no-knead bread, her husband’s homebrewed beer) and she’s such a mammoth inspiration to me that I’m BLOGGING at 10:56am on a Sunday, look what she made me do.