Celebration, Panic, Celebration

I am a lucky asshole.

Seriously.

So, as noted in my airport post yesterday, I spent most of my 25th birthday traveling. While on the 6 hour flight to LA I read a lot in a new book (YA Fantasy, obv) and watched several episodes of 30 Rock before my computer died. Upon arrival, I was so excited to be back in LA I packed up my various carry-ons quite quickly, booked it to the baggage claim, and met DiTonto outside, who had decked out my car in some serious birthday decorations and was blasting Manu Chao—a great welcome home/birthday surprise. (And thank God she brought my car because my 60+ lb. bag would not have fit in her VW Bug). We went straight to one of our fave dinner joints: Panera (so classy) where I got a lot of Happy Birthdays and perplexed expressions when people realized we were, in fact, serious, and yes, in fact, celebrating a 25th birthday dinner at Panera of all places.

While Ash and I were catching up we both commented on visiting friends back East and how everyone else’s apartments seemed to be a lot more “adult” or together than ours is. Then we ran over a giant palm frond, and then in the middle of the road pulled over and I got underneath the car and yanked it out, and we then decided we would bring it to our apartment (and we wonder why our place looks like a cross between a deserted beach shack and a fraternity house).

Back at home we played some video games for a little bit and then, feeling the tug of our messed up time cycles, DiTonto went to bed and I decided I would unpack a little bit and get some sleep myself.

Or so I thought.

I walked into my room and started to go through my stuff, admiring my new shoes, wondering how I left the most random things at home in New York when all of a sudden I realized, with certainty, something, very, very bad.

I left my computer on the airplane.

Yes, I, girl with a computer tethered to her arm, left my beloved machine and keeper of all I hold dear under the seat in front of me on the Goddamn airplane.

Panic ensued. As did feelings of nausea, hyperventilation, as well as a game plan as to how I was going to finance my new MacBook Pro that I would surely have to buy—all without telling my dad for at least a month. Trying to act rationally, I told myself it would be okay because I have most all of my files backed up on an external hard drive I keep at home.

I spent about 45 minutes on the phone with various people at Continental, attempting to discern whether or not my plane had already left LAX, where it was headed to next, and if anyone had discovered a computer on board and was good Samaritan enough to turn it in.

In what felt like a race against time, around 10:45 pm I booked it to the airport, employing techniques from the 20 minutes I once watched of The Secret, reciting, “I will get back this computer. My computer will be returned to me” over and over again, begging with the Universe to cut me some slack—it’s my birthday!

Well, I guess begging the Universe/God for kindness/to return computer works because when I pulled into short-term parking, ran as fast as I could to the Continental desk at the terminal, a nice woman there made a few calls, and twenty minutes later my computer was back in my hands, and I no longer felt a strong urge to vomit.

Like I said, I am a lucky asshole.