Scandinavian Green Eyes

The phone rang this morning to my mumbling, half-sleep surprise.  The worst storm in thirty years was promising to rain white fluff fury down upon Chicago over the next couple of days and it was very likely that my flight would be delayed.  Likely to be delayed indefinitely in a ditch at the end of a runway red-and-blue alight with sirens and parka adorned paramedics shuffling through 26 inches of snow to pull my mumbling, half-asleep body from the charred remains of a less than flightless airbus.  Or something of that less dramatic nature.
On the other end of the line was my ever resilient, plan-in-hand mother calling to say: wake up.  Thinking I had all day today to pack and finish any last minute arrangements I had spent the past night staring into the pristine waters of mediocre TV and digging away at one of the two (yes two) pints of Ben and Jerry's my mom had purchased for me.  It's scary how accurate a picture of my diet she has recreated.  Somewhere between USA original series and toying with the idea of polishing of season two (yes two) of The X-Files I got tired and wandered off to bed, setting my alarm for a respectable 8:30.  The phone rang at 7.  I was stuffing shirts into my suitcase by the time the thing went off.  I had to laugh.  That was one of the first times in a while that the turning off of my alarm wasn't followed by turning over and finding that perfect spot to fall right back to sleep.
My mom came home around 11 and I ready to go, I guess.  If I forgot anything I can always blame mother nature.  It's nice when there's a metaphorical higher power to force forward your problems upon.  Late for a class?  "The CTA was running slow today"; "there was an accident on the freeway"; "a typhoon of biblical proportions nearly swiped my taxi off the road".  For example.

Our plan was to drive south before the storm picked up and see if my flight could be pushed forward.  Mom had already called the travel agency that had booked the original flight and they quoted a switch now would cost us roughly $750.  We decided that wasn't happening and instead we would to head to the airport to ask the beautiful stewardess with piercing green eyes if there was anyway I could beat the weather.
On the drive up we had to sway a few miles around an accident that had shut down a portion of 43 after which we arrived without incident.  Well, unless you consider my mother following a crowd of cars into a Hertz car return driveway that we could not exit from causing me to have some psycho-somatic allergic reaction ending in a wave of unstoppable sneezes an "incident".
Luckily, when we arrived at the Scandinavian Airlines counter the kind lady with those sultry green eyes proceeded to switch my flight to today at the same time for no extra charge.  "Would you like an aisle or window seat?"
My bag weighed in at 50lbs and I was off - to the food court.  I realized that the only time I eat Chicago-style hotdogs is at airports.  I've never eaten one outside of O'Hare International.  I considered this as I licked the mustard from my fingers and sneezed a few more times just to punctuate my existence.
"Okay, Mom, I think I'm ready." (More for her than for myself)

The line through security was short and I managed to avoid any beeping, groping, prodding, or suspicious looks.  I checked my ticket and wandered off towards gate M15.  The entire terminal was empty except for a few Scandinavian employees and I suddenly felt as though I had somehow insulted the vacancy of the space.  I found a spot next to the windows, lord knows there were options, and settled in.  I've been at it for about three hours.  In about an hour twenty they should be boarding.  After that my half-asleep, blog-mumbling body will be landing in Copenhagen, transferring to Charles de Gaulle, and then touching down on the cool tableau of Parisian runways.  And so it begins.  Or something of that less dramatic nature.