Quick goodbyes and thank yous were shared in the allotted three minutes at the airport departure spot, Mom and I were ready to check in, sit down and get home.
We got up to the do-it-yourself check-in, an invention I loathe. (Thank you technology for making me poke a computer screen and listen to an incredibly annoying automated voice instead of allowing me to speak to an actual human being.)
I started typing in the confirmation number to get the same screen that asked me to put the confirmation number in. Annoyed at the incompetence of the computer, we moved to a check-in line with a human being only to find that the incompetence was in fact mine.
While waiting in line my mom looked at the paper I had printed to find “March 13” in the departure date slot. “Why does this say March 13?” my mother questioned. I felt my face get red and hot, and I started to panic and apologize profusely and pray – a lot.
When it was our turn to sort the situation out with the attendant behind the counter we heard what we feared, no room on any flight that night.
I felt like an idiot. Who books a flight home a month after you are supposed to?
My heart was racing so fast, and I just felt so stupid. My mom asked what we should do, and I couldn’t even think. I was this little kid who couldn’t calmly fix a problem or make a decision as to what to do with the fact that we were stuck in Denver another day.
Fortunately for us, the wonderful airport lady moved our flight to the next morning, unfortunately to a 7:15am flight. (I am so not a morning person, and that meant a 4:30 am wake up call to catch the 5:00 am shuttle to Denver International Airport.)
We got a hotel at a discounted rate for those people with “flight interruptions,” or in my case, passenger stupidity.
I apologized profusely and abundantly to my mother who was so looking forward to sleeping in her own bed. She just kept telling me, “We aren’t in Africa. It’s going to be fine.” But I had yet to shake my feeling of stupidity until we arrived at the lovely Doubletree Hotel less than an hour after this self-imposed catastrophe.
Moral of the story: I apparently don’t handle messing up very well.