I have been on some terrible flights: flights with crying babies, flights with turbulence, flights with movie systems that don't work, flight with semi-oily Oriental Studies majors who insist on talking to me through the entire flight about learning to read Sanskrit and ask for my number upon landing. Now, no flight will ever be worse than my red-eye to Bolivia in which we made an (emergency?) landing in Panama to refuel right about the time my NyQuil kicked in, but this one was close. To make a long story short, I had a headache and an 8 year-old sitting next to me who couldn't possibly be amused by anything that wasn't electronic and making loud beeping noises for five hours. I tried journaling--my handwriting was infuriatingly poor. I watched a few videos on my new iPod--that part wasn't actually too terrible, but it was only mildly soothing.
So when we finally taxied to the gate and I emerged, disheveled and needing some sort of vice (among the list running through my head was a cigarette--although I don't smoke--and a drink--although I could have done that on the plane with the coupons my parents slipped me) so I found the next best thing: a Starbucks. One grande 130-degree Espresso Truffle and a glass of water later, I was a bit happier.
And then I took out my computer for kicks and giggles.
And there was free wireless.
So now I can blog my woes way and finally share that gossip that I meant to update on days ago but couldn't due to a severe lack of Internet access in the Great White North.
It all started the Friday of Finals Week. The "Meh, Greek" mood didn't actually wear off for about five days, so by Friday night it was still in full force. I trudged through down the arrivals ramp at BWI towards baggage claim, looking forward to sleeping through the ride home and forgetting papers, books, and professors' dirty looks when I saw my dad. And my brother-in-law, Scott. No Mom, no Becky.
In the first place, I had no idea that Scott and Becky were going to join my parents to welcome me home, and that only Dad and Scott were waiting at baggage claim was especially strange. My brain was far too stretched by gamma nasals and third declension noun paradigms to think much of it, so I figured that Mom and Becky were waiting in the car. As I walked past the security post, I yelled to Scott, "Hey the whole family's here!" He smiled, which is rare for him (he's not a particularly emotional person) and yelled back, "We brought a sign for you!" and held up a green sign that he'd been carrying.
It read: "Welcome Home, Aunt Cindy!"
I took off my hat.
And then I did what any 21 year-old younger sister who'd just finished finals week, was dead tired, and had just found out she was going to become an aunt would do: I burst out sobbing, right in the middle of the exit walkway, with disgruntled Washingtonians giving me strange looks as they made their way to pick up their homogenous black Samsonite roller bags at baggage claim.
I still didn't register that maybe Mom and Becky weren't actually in the car circling around the airport and, feeling embarassed at crying in front of two men without any older women around me to be gushy and emotional, I buried my face in my hat just as Mom whipped around the corner with the camera like a paparazzo and Becky emerged from behind a pillar, triumphant with her baby bump and maternity pants, screaming, "I TOLD you she'd cry!!!" Oh yes, it was a true Lambert family moment.
So that's my news. I'm going to be an Auntie!!!! Now I have another flight to catch, hopefully with a great deal more sleep and far fewer annoying electronics. Maybe I should get used to it if I'm going to be an Aunt.