I Lost My Flight, My Luggage And My Reason When I Met That Flight Attendant

There are exactly three things I pride myself on in life: spreadsheets, punctuality, and never needing help from anyone. At thirty-two, I had turned being organized into an art form — perhaps a slightly lonely one, but a beautiful art form nonetheless. So when I found myself standing at Gate B17 at Chicago O'Hare at 6:47 PM on Christmas Eve, watching my 6:45 PM flight to Portland push back from the gate without me, I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I simply opened my carefully color-coded travel planner and crossed out "Arrive Home 9:14 PM" with the satisfied precision of a woman who knew exactly how much her life was about to implode. And then — because the universe has a sick sense of humor — I looked up and saw her. A flight attendant in a navy uniform, leaning against the empty gate desk, holding my forgotten carry-on in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other, with an expression that said she had seen exactly this kind of disaster a thousand times before and found it absolutely hilarious.