Practical Obsession

I am, for the most part, a super practical person who never worries.  (The hyperbolic nature of that statement isn't a dead giveaway, is it? I'm doing my best to be convincing here...)

At some point on Sunday I realized that I can now say I am flying to Europe next week.  Next. Week.  I may have hyperventilated somewhat at that point, but I'll never say. You won't get it out of me. I'm a sealed book.

Truth be told, there's a very small window that I'm worried about.  I rather enjoy flying.  I can sleep alone in a hotel room.  I can probably even manage to figure out how to order a schnitzel and strudel without the waiter bringing me a vat of lager and a giant sausage.  I'm not a smidge worried about the work related portion of the trip or the colleagues I get to hang around with.

There is, however, an hour and twenty minutes that has me somewhat panicked.  It involves me, the Charles de Gaulle airport, and a connecting flight that I really really don't want to miss.  The CDG is apparently a sprawling mass of Gallic chaos, and in the midst of that I need to get off my flight (assuming it doesn't arrive late), race through security (without looking suspicious), across a terminal or two (hopefully allowing a moment to pause in a restroom), through security again all in the scant passing of an hour.  An hour isn't really that long.


Pass the brown paper bag, please.

I have a plan, though. I have decided to take a page from my father here, and obsess about it.  (He's scratching his head right about now.)  My father once gave me the following advice: The things you obsess about the most never happen.  As a much younger lass, I latched onto this idea with enthusiasm.  About to embark on a 2400km road trip on my own (before my older brother snapped out of it and realized he should really come with me at the eleventh hour), I obsessed my pretty little head about all sorts of things... hitting a deer on the highway; having to relieve myself behind a bush that just happened to be occupied by a bear doing the same; having one (or all) of my car tires simply fall away from the car on a steep descent from the mountains.


And Dad was right.
Nothing like that ever happened.

So, at the risk of sounding completely superstitious, for the purpose of this brief, hour-long window, I am adopting the philosophy of practical obsession: 

I will miss my connecting flight.
The airline will lose my luggage.
Some French police officer will mistake my desperate need to relieve myself as suspicious and detain me for hours, only to give up and send me on my way due to my pathetic lack of French.
I will be forced to walk to Dusseldorf in bare feet, uphill the whole way.
My blow dryer will explode.
The waiter will bring me four bowls of borscht instead of the bill.
There will be a bear.  Somewhere, somehow.

Fortunately (there's always a silver lining) you, my dear readers, will get to live through my adventures vicariously right here at Adventure Central.
You're welcome.
For you, I'd gladly walk barefoot through the French Alps.
Well, that might be a lie.

I'd better stop while I'm ahead.