How I Spent My Friday Night
11/12/07


My dad taught me many of life's greatest lessons. He taught me to open doors for others, he taught me the infield fly rule, and he taught me that women are always right (even when they're wrong). But perhaps the most important lesson he ever bestowed upon me, was the virtue of optimism. To him, optimism wasn't just a frame of mind. It was a way of life. Growing up with my dad was like having Brent Musburger narrating the play-by-play of the greatest Cinderella-story of all-time. Thanks to my dad, I've seen the Purdue Boilermakers knock off Michigan and Ohio State in last second plays. Thanks to my dad, I've seen Marquette win over-time thrillers. And thanks to my dad, I've even seen the Cubs pull out a ninth-inning miracle or two.

Of course, it hasn't always been a Hollywood ending. With the glory comes the fair share of heartache. But that's what makes optimism a virtue. It takes faith to see the glass half-full. It takes courage to root for the underdog. It takes optimism to believe in miracles. Add in a splash of the Focker family genetically-cheesy sense of humor, and my dad had single-handedly prepared me for a long-distance relationship.

Friday night I was on my way to Minneapolis for my November AT&T (allotted time together) with Kristen.

Sidebar#1101333: Long distance relationships are much akin to cellular phone service contracts. Both come with a pre-determined number of minutes, both charge through the nose for roaming around the country, and most people have no idea what they are getting themselves into when they sign up.

American Airlines flight #1101 was scheduled to depart Chicago's O'Hare International Airport at 5:10pm. Of course, at O'Hare, like most airports, a scheduled departure time is more of a suggestion than anything else. In Chicago, 5:10 typically means 5:25 or 5:30. It's called "the rule of 15-20".

Spend enough time in Chicago and you will learn that everything takes approximately 15-20 minutes. How far is it to Grandma's house? 15-20 minutes. When are we leaving? 15-20 minutes. How long are we staying there? 15-20 minutes.

To translate the above paragraph into non-Chicagoeese: Grandma's house is approximately 15 miles away, we'll be leaving when we're ready and we're staying for 2 weeks.

Thus, a 5:10 departure time at O'Hare, comes with a fair assumption that your plane will take off no earlier than 5:30pm.

Being that my office is "15-20" minutes away from the airport, I decided to allow an hour. I was through security, and standing in line for my Grande Skim Pumpkin Spice Latte at Starbucks before you could say "Queer Drink for the Straight Guy."

Sidebar#1101334: Yes I said Pumpkin Spice Latte. No, I have no idea what it consists of, besides Skim milk. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's warm milk, Folgers Coffee, and a few shakes of cinnamon. But take it from me, and my future favorite little-sister-law J-Lo who simply says, "It tastes like fall."

Sure enough, though my ticket spoke of a 5:10 departure, the airport monitors now listed us at 5:30. (please see "the rule of 15-20" mentioned above) Not being phased by this expected delay, I plopped down in a nearby uncomfortable airport chair and awaited my chariot.
5:25pm… Minutes away from our newly scheduled departure time, I couldn't help but notice the obvious absence of airplane.

"Our plane is in the area," announced the jolly ticketing agent from behind the counter, as if reading my thoughts. "It is simply in a holding pattern, as O'Hare is currently closed to all in-bound aircraft due to inclement weather."

Two visions immediately sprung into my head. An airplane in a holding pattern (which to me resembled eleven 747s lining up in the victory formation running out the clock), and O'Hare being closed to all in-bound aircraft (which simply meant an old custodian-looking man in overalls and a baseball cap had walked out to the end of each runway and flipped off the lights).

Sidebar#1101335: My dad may have given me optimism but my vivid imagination is clearly the byproduct of growing up alongside the Monsters of the Midway and the Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles.

"Well, at least our plane is ‘in the area’," commented my neighbor from the next uncomfortable airport chair, who was clearly not from Chicago. I thought about explaining to him the idiosyncrasies of our local tongue; about how "in the area" was a synonym for "15-20 minutes". But, judging by the innocent look in his eye, I opted to let the poor man live in his fantasy world a bit longer. "Very true," I replied, giving him my best poker face.

6:00pm… I hear the words "Grand Rapids" for the first time. Grand Rapids is a city in Michigan. Chicago is a city in Illinois. It is important that you understand this geographical discrepancy before reading on.

"Due to continuing inclement weather, our aircraft has been diverted to Grand Rapids," announced the not-so-jolly ticketing agent. Though I was experiencing slight feelings of disappointment, my heart went out to those people on the diverted aircraft. People whose tickets had promised them Chicago, IL by 5:30pm we're now the proud owners of Grand Rapids, MI by 6:15pm. This would be like ordering surf & turf at a restaurant and the server brings you soup & salad. (and the soup is cold).

"So much for 'in the area'," comments my friendly seat neighbor, who has now moved his way up my social circle ladder, thanks to our quality time at gate K13, and who I am now on a first name basis with. Turns out my friendly seat neighbor is actually Herb from Rochester, MN. "So much indeed," I respond.

7:05pm… the hour of our 3rd scheduled departure now comes and passes. It's hard to say I was disappointed. After all, last I heard, O'Hare was still closed for business. My cell phone battery is running low. I begin to ration my usage.

When you’re long-distance folk like Kristen and I, your cell phone is your lifeline. Traditional couples have the option to spend time together, grab a cup of coffee, or cozy up to Sportscenter. When you’re long-distance, you can still do all of these things, only you replace proximity of person-to-person, with proximity of cell phone-to-face.

Being forced to ration cell phone usage in a long distance relationship is like facing 4th and long, and then losing your starting quarter-back. You’re 2nd string guy might convert, but most of the fans have already left the stadium. I guess you could say only the true optimists have remained in their seats.

7:45pm… Time to stretch the legs. 3+ hours at gate K13 is even less fun than it sounds. I ask Herb from Rochester (who is now standing up to my wedding) if he would kindly watch my bags. He accepts, pending I bring him back a box of Mallomars from the Duty-Free shop.

“That sweet tooth will be the end of you, Herb,” adds Herb’s wife Gloria, who up until this point, has slept through much of the goings on with Flight #1101. “It’s really no trouble, ma’am,” I explain to the once-again-fast-asleep elderly woman.

Walking through the terminal, I felt rejuvenated. I decided that I was really doing quite well for what I had been through thus far. Many of my fellow strandees were taking the whole experience much worse. Many had opted to take out their frustration on their respective ticketing agents. Others had already thrown in the towel on getting out Friday night and were looking to rebook.

Not this optimistic idiot in love. Die-hard romantics are familiar with the expression “hell or high water”. We live by the code that nothing will stand in the way of our scheduled “15-20 minutes” of AT&T. So what if my plane was currently on the ground in Grand Rapids? So what if we missed our dinner reservations? So what if my 2-day visit was looking more and more like 1.5 with every passing minute? I’d wait until midnight if I had to.

8:30pm… Herb would be disappointed. They were out of Mallomars at the Duty-Free shop. I was a few yards away from K13 when I noticed a change of scenery. Empty chairs as far as the eye could see. It was as if flight #1101 had never existed. In fact, that was exactly the case. All that was left of Flight #1101 was Herb from Rochester and his geriatric sleeping beauty Gloria. As I approached, he looked at me with the same innocent eye from earlier and said, “Ticket lady said we’re cancelled,” explained Herb, wondering where his Mallomars were. “S’posed to see another fella at K10 for rebooking.”

My heart stopped. I had just lost Minnesota.

Five years of distance tends to be five years of curveballs such as this one. With practice, one can adjust and become an above-average curveball hitter, however, every once in a while, he can still get fooled. As much as I wanted it to be a walk-off homerun, the Mighty Casey had struck out.

9:00pm… As I stood there in the very same rain that had spoiled my fairytale ending, waiting for my cab, with my now dead cell phone and suitcase full of a weekend’s worth of clothes, even the optimists were breathing their last breaths, when the second string quarterback threw up his Hail Mary pass.

I flipped open my cell phone, which on zero battery somehow connected a phone call to Kristen.

“I’ll be there next weekend,” I exclaimed, from the rain-soaked streets of the arrivals gate. “Come hell or high water!”

And as we shared a moment cozying up to our cell phones, I remembered my dad and all that he had taught me. Thanks to his optimism, I knew the clock had not yet struck midnight on this Cinderella Story.

See you at the ball.


P.S. Please bring Mallomars for Herb.