I was really, really excited for our upcoming trip to Japan.
This morning I had to make a conscious effort not to gloat to my coworkers that it was the last day before I was officially on vacation. (You don’t want to brag to colleagues about stuff like that, because they’re the ones who’ll get the last laugh when your brief fling with paradise ends and you have to drag your sorry ass back to the office.)
I’ve been 99% packed for almost a week.
I’ve got all my travel essentials laid out for inspection, so little anxious me can look over them obsessively and reassure myself that I’m not forgetting anything.
I was fuckin’ pumped, y’all. I was so friggin’ ready to get on that plane.
And then I had to go and ruin it all by going online and checking the airline’s list of restricted baggage items to make certain I wasn’t unwittingly attempting to bring anything confiscatable on board the plane.
Guys, I am so disappointed.
Billiard cues are prohibited in the cabin.
I don’t know how they can do this to me. No 8-ball? No 9-ball? NO SNOOKER? WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO FOR TEN HOURS NOW?
Goddammit. I guess Nutty Hubby and I will just have to pass the time having kinky mile-high sex in the lav- oh son of a bitch, I probably can’t bring handcuffs either, can I?
Maybe this whole trip was a bad idea. I mean, if you can’t play pool and engage in a little light bondage on an international flight, then what’s the point?
Oh, wait, they allow ice skates.
Phew. For a minute there I didn’t think I was going to get to have any fun.