Oh lord, stuck in O'Hare again

Holy Christ, every time I fly I’m shocked all over again at what an ever-loving pain the the ass it has become. I’m waiting for a plane in Chicago. I’m going to Colorado, and I’m looking forward to it even though the main event is an environmental law conference. I was supposed to be on a 5;40 a.m. non-stop, but I missed the flight even though I was at the airport an hour early, at 4 fucking 40 a.m. So I got a seat on a flight to Chicago that left at 6:35, and I still almost didn’t make it because the security line was so long. I ran to the gate in my socks because I didn’t have time to put my shoes back on after TSA got done with me. I was the last to get on the plane and I barely made it.

I went to bed after midnight, got up at 4 a.m., and lightly dozed on the plane. I’m exhausted, but I am writing my words before I try to nap in the airport. Or go get a 10,000 calorie Cinnabon, one or the other.

Yesterday I skipped my constitutional theory seminar, but I went to my swing dance class even though I hadn’t yet packed for my trip. Af ew years ago I took a swing dance class with Al & Cathy at the Rock n Bowl. They were cute. Al was a slight man with a black pencil moustache, dyed black. Cathy was a chipper blonde have been on the Lawrence Welk show. They taught enough to allow you to function on a dance floor, and they also taught old-school gender relations etiquette, like how men should ask women to dance but not monopolize her dance card, and then offer to walk her to her car when she was leaving. It’s kind of ironic that I met the psychopathic misogynistic med student at the class.

Anyway, now I am taking a better, real-deal swing dance class. We have made it beyond triple-step, triple-step, rock-step and are learning to jitterbug. It is the greatest thing ever and a spectacular antidote to law school, which I will write more about later. But for now I am past 300 words and the Cinnabon is calling.