“All good things come to an end”. Famous last words indeed. While I was certain that I’d have to return to reality, I definitely did not expect this tsunami of bad luck.
It all started with me finding out that I’d ripped a part of my new luggage most likely caused from my manhandling and abuse. So while I prayed that it’d all hold together till I arrived home, I also found out that it was far too heavy and an impossible mission to take the metro to Porte Maillot and switch to the Les Cars. It was so hefty that I couldn’t even carry it down the apartment stairs. Well, at least now I have a vague idea of what dragging a corpse in a suitcase feels like. In this short and longest minute of my life, I managed to scrape my knees and bruise and cut my toe. And spoiled my already spoiling shoes that little further.
So I managed to catch a breather in a nice, black Mercedes. That respite cost me €40. Oh what the hell, what’s 40 when I already spent a couple of billion. Famous last thoughts, I tell you. Slight digression. So I was chatting with the nice driver and he asked me about my stay and stuff and somehow, X came up in the conversation. Mr. Nice Driver then asked, “is he the man for you in your life?”. I found myself saying yes, adding (a little sadly as an afterthought) that the feeling was unfortunately not mutual. Am I really that obvious with my glee when I talk about him??
We managed to arrive at the airport without any fuss. Then we had to check in. Holy mother of god my luggage alone weighed a massive 34kg! Was seriously beginning to suspect that there was a real body in there. We had the misfortune of getting Miss Grumps for service. Of allllll the nice, smiley staff, we HAD to get the one who probably didn’t get any last night. I’m sorry for slamming you, Air France, but your 23kg limit sucks balls. Miss Grumps then duly informed me that I’d have to reduce my bag by 2kg for safety reasons or I wouldn’t be able to check in. We both had to squat in front of I don’t know, 17,000 people with our open luggages in all their glory. X then informed me that my bras (neon-coloured and some patterned) were flashing the world and her mother. Fuck that shit. Who freaking cares? I have more pressing issues to settle here. Lucky for me my bras are beautiful and no where near old and manky.
I thank the stars above X is no where near being a shopaholic. But because of my excess, now his luggage is overweight too. Never mind, I comfort myself, nothing is a problem if it can be settled by money. After all, didn’t I already spend enough to feed a village for a week? Famous last feelings of being obnoxious. I had to pay €200 for excess weight. Well, fuck me, fuck my life. Nevertheless, I was relieved I would be able to make it for the flight.
We had loads of time to kill and it was during this lull that I found out that during the repacking, I somehow managed to rip my shoes a little further and my big toe was on the verge of breaking through. Let’s just say I kinda did a half walk, half shuffle all the way, resembling one of them zombies in MJ’s Thriller video.
Then we had to do a connecting flight. We had 50 minutes to fervently hope the first leg would not be delayed, that we would be able to hop off the plane quick and find the connecting gate and pass through security smoothly. Someone up there must have taken pity on me because it turned out to be uneventful in a good way.
I originally could have taken a direct flight home but because I didn’t feel like travelling home alone, I changed to be with him. We left the middle seat empty on purpose because no one likes middle seats, and I could always offer my window seat in the worst scenario. I couldn’t be more wrong. This motherfucker not only declined my offer but tried to bargain for the aisle seat instead. Well mister, I’m not letting you have your way. Another digression. Which selfish fucker actually splits a couple up like that on a long-haul flight? Granted we’re not together, but he wouldn’t know, would he. He must have a heart of stone or is some sad lonely bitter fucker who derives joy out of splitting couples up.
So not only did this fat fuck (let’s call him FF) make my return flight as if I was alone but this fuck face does not have a sense of personal space. Throughout the 12 long hours, he dominated both armrests, refused to budge even when we attempted to jab him, spread his legs so wide apart they were resting on my thighs, jabbed me constantly while he was eating and at one point, I was pressed up against the window. If the windows could open, I’d be out there flapping with the birds I swear.
You’d think my agony would end after we landed. Nopes. I was so winning in this game of Russian Roulette. My luggage didn’t arrive. The airline said that the transit time was too short to catch up. Uh huh glad you all know. Next time hopefully you’ll think twice about making people run through the airport as if they were in Amazing Race. All my facial products were in there. I could wash my face with only water that and the very next day.
And to top the icing on my extremely unlucky cake, I went back to work jet-lagged (amazing how a 7-hr time difference screws you up like that) AND with news that I may lose my job because of a company crisis. Perfect.
Must have accidentally stumbled into the portal of being fucking unlucky or something. But at least now I can say, I ended my holiday with a bang. Bang! I die. Let’s hope these won’t be my famous last words. Still wide awake by the way. Fuck me, fuck my life.