Eight and a Half Minutes of Abandonment

It’s early morning and I’m in a hotel room  in Orange County, California getting ready for a few days of meetings. I flew in yesterday, which I must say, was a day that felt like a complete fall apart after a long run of back to back peaceful days full of good choices and namastaying. 

Things went wonky when I could not find my green, eco-friendly, save the turtles straw that I use every single morning to drink the raspberry, spinach protein/vitamin shake that I drink every single morning right after my routine of morning pages, gratitudes, yoga and shower, which all happen in the same order, every single morning. Make note: none of these things had happened yesterday morning except the shower, because I had an early morning meeting before leaving for the airport. So it was truly the metaphoric last straw when I had to drink my smoothie WITH MY LIPS touching the CUP thereby gaining a semi-permanent purple ring around my mouth, the kind little kids get when they drink red Kool-aid. Only greenish purple. 

This led to further unraveling. For instance, I thought that my meetings were in SanDiego this week. Actually, I thought Orange County was a COUNTY that San Diego was in. So when I checked in for my flight, I had a total panic attack when they said I was actually going to Santa Ana. But then I looked at my meeting itinerary and it said Laguna Beach. Where the fuck was I supposed to actually BE?  Instead of blaming California for it’s lunacy of having one general location be called so many things, I instead started feeling bad about myself for not knowing where I’m going on such a regular basis. I am my own travel agent so I only have myself to blame, though you’ll be happy to know I was actually supposed to go exactly where I ended up. Which is pretty typical for me, by the grace of God and a couple tired angels. 

Then, the Prime Video shows that I thought I had strategically downloaded for my airplane ride, in fact did not download. So I turned to the book I had just purchased as a challenge by a friend to reread: “Atlas Shrugged”. Unfortunately the book had print the size of microscopic ANTS and I forgot my cheaters. So I had NOTHING to actually do on the plane except pretend to sleep because I’m trying not to work every second of my life. Except the guy next to me had to keep going to the bathroom every four minutes. 

These heinous first world problems all happened because I couldn’t find my green straw. 

I’m pretty sure someone in my family is fucking with me.  

And I WILL get to the bottom of this when I return to Spokane. But I’m here in Orange County/Laguna Beach/Santa Anna/San Diego where I’m pretty sure straws are against the law, among many other lesser things. 

For instance the sign on my bathroom door says: 

“ PLEASE BE ADVISED in accordance with CALIFORNIA STATE LAW this door must remain closed to provide clear access to the exit in the event of an emergency. Thank you.” 

Now, I am not a typical law breaker. Like my rigid morning routine typically helps keep me together in an otherwise hectic existence, most rules are in place for a reason. BUT come ON California: everyone knows that one of the many advantages of staying in a hotel room by yourself is that you get to poop with the bathroom door open. 

So I broke the law.

I’m a Washingtonian outlaw, breaking bad in California. 

Feeling rather free and feisty, I skipped my yoga routine and took advantage of another hotel delight: dancing with complete and total abandonment, jumping and shaking and convulsing to Michael Jackson’s best all time song “Smooth Criminal”. Twice. It wasn’t pretty and I’m not gonna lie, I may have peed myself a little, but it feels like I broke out of jail for eight and a half minutes. You should try it. (Dancing not peeing.)

My very logical point here is that I can sometimes let myself be mentally jailed by my routines. Besides, when they take me to Folsom for leaving the bathroom door open, I’m gonna have to learn to live without a heck of a lot more than green straws. 

P.S. Folsom is NOT in Orange County. It’s in Sacramento County. Where Sacramento also is. Somewhere in California where I am not. Yet.