Greetings from Charlotte, NC

It's 5:00am on Saturday morning, and I've been up all night. That's because I didn't get home from work until some time around midnight. It was just one of many recent early mornings and late nights at work.

*****

My brain's shot. I sit and stare blankly at the television until 3am when I finally force my exhausted body to get off the couch. I have to pack. I have a flight to catch at 7am.

Two weeks ago, I promised Pookie that I would visit him for Christmas. I don't know what I was thinking; I should have stuck to my guns and insisted that I spend Christmas alone. The only day I have off from work is Monday, and it's an extremely busy time at work at the end of the year. But, my visit to Pookie was long overdue, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he and Ann didn't want me to be alone for Christmas.

I like spending time alone. Many people don't believe me because the art of being alone is largely lost on people in the 25-40 age group. There are far too many in that age range who can't do anything unless they have someone at their side for even small things that require minimal interaction like going to the mall or the movies.

What I think people don't always understand is that aloneness can be very liberating. When I'm alone, I'm come and go as my whim desires. There are no appointments that I'm obligated to keep, no one to coordinate schedules with, no need to check in with anyone, no one to answer to but myself. I act according to my mood and motivation, and I can change my mind about what I'd like to do at any given moment without concern that I'm being a "flake" and wasting someone else's time. When I'm alone, it's incredibly relaxing to know that I'm not bound by the needs, commitments or schedules of others, but that my time is my own time to use or waste as I please.

I suspect that those same people may even pity me when I tell them that I prefer to be alone because they don't believe it to be true. When asked what I did over Thanksgiving, I replied, "I had a great weekend. My roommate spent the week at her bf's, so I had the whole apartment to myself. I slept in, went to the gym, ordered dinner in, watched movies, read, and napped." I see the slightly pitying glances that say, "poor girl, she must not have any friends or family." I don't really care, and nor do I try to explain because attempts to make others understand would be misconstrued as defensiveness. It'd only confirm their misguided belief that I spend time alone because I have no other options. The reality is far different.

My desire to spend time alone might be because I don't get enough "me" time -- time to go through the stacks of unopened mail piled up on my desk, to file away bills and documents, to work on my photography, to update my blog, to edit and post pictures that range from my day-to-day adventures in NYC to big trips like Costa Rica (2 years ago), Portland (9 months ago), Hawaii (6 months ago). The end result is that my personal life is made up of piles. Piles of urgent things that need to be addressed right away, like bills, and piles of things that I'd like to work on or put away when I have more time. The "urgent" pile will eventually get addressed when it grows to an alarmingly unbearable size. The "when I have more time" pile hasn't been touched in two years.

It's now 3am, and I'm staring at piles. Piles of three weeks worth of dirty laundry -- the laundry I've been meaning to wash for two weeks but haven't had the time. I open my underwear drawer. It's empty. Even my emergency underwear is gone -- the ugly granny one that can mysteriously be found in every girl's underwear drawer even though she wouldn't be caught dead in it and would never have bought such a hideous thing for herself. Great. Just great.

I dig through the pile of luggage under the rolling clothes rack that serves as the second half of my closet in my 100 square foot room and retrieve my extra large L.L. Bean duffel bag, the humongous one that more closely resembles a me-sized body bag. I start filling it with the piles of dirty clothes. Even my sheets and towels. I've got two hours, and the car is picking me up at 5am to take me to LGA.

*****

Anyhoo, back to the present. The best thing about having no clean clothing is not having to think or plan what to pack. I drag my extra large duffel bag out of the back of the Lincoln Towncar and into the airport. It's 5:40 Saturday morning, and I haven't slept since Thursday night when I managed to squeeze in four hours of QT with my mattress before heading back to work. As I punch my info into the self check-in terminal at the JetBlue counter, I can't help but feel slightly impressed that I managed to make it to the airport on time. I'm notorious for showing up at the airport at the last possible minute. Yes, I've even missed flights (Hawaii and Hong Kong to name a few). The terminal blinks at me: "There is a problem with your reservation. Please contact an agent."

Still feeling pretty good about making it to the airport before the last possible second, my drag my ginormous duffel over to the JetBlue ticketing agent, "Excuse me, there seems to be a problem with my reservation. I can't print a boarding pass."

"Your destination?" says the nice lady in blue.

"Charlotte, NC."

"Ma'am, this is La Guardia. JetBlue only flies to Florida from La Guardia. Your flight leaves from JFK." I glance at the printout with my reservation details. She was right, and I'm a moron. How typical of me. Go figure.

"SHIT!" I throw my duffel over my shoulder and run out the door. I jump in a yellow cab that's just dropped off a passenger and ask, "Hey, I have to catch a 7am flight out of JFK. How long does it take to get there?"

"30-45 minutes at best, and it's starting to rain, so it'll take longer now." It's now 5:50am.

"Listen, if you could do your best to get me there in 30 minutes or less, I'd really appreciate it." It's time for damage control. If I'm going to miss the flight, I need to call Pookie before he makes the trip to the airport, and he needs to think that I didn't miss it on purpose because I'm trying to avoid a trip down there. I leave him a short message.

While I'm rushed, I'm in no way stressed. When you spend 12-14 hours a day in an environment where everything is urgent and needs to be done right away (even when it doesn't), urgency takes on a new definition. In both my professional and personal life, my sense of urgency or pressure has lost perspective. Breathe. Control what you can control and let everything else fall to the wayside (Some days, I'm not very good at doing the latter). I can't make the cab drive faster, and I can't do anything about traffic, so I'm not going to sweat it. I close my eyes and nap.

It's 6:20am when my yellow cab pulls up to the JetBlue departures terminal at JFK. I thank and tip the driver $20 for his timeliness. This time, my boarding pass prints out at the self check-in terminal with no problem. I check my duffel. I'm one of the last people to make it on the flight, but I make it. Once again, I've caught my flight at the last possible minute. Guess some habits are harder to break than I want to believe, but hey, no sweat, right?