The thunder rolls, and the lightning strikes...

It was a dark and stormy night.

Literally.

There I sat. Tears ready to bubble up and out all over my cheeks in an all too embarrassing fashion at the Milwaukee airport. It was raining. Pouring more like it. Thunder rolling, lightning striking, straight out of a Garth Brooks song.

And my flight to Orlando was delayed. With a 95% chance of cancellation.

There are lots of words that begin with the letter C that are no good, absolutely and completely terrible, could not be more horrendous. Cancellation is one of them.

I hate to fly. From beginning to end, I just don't enjoy it.

It starts out with the airport cry, the inevitable airport breakdown, where whoever I'm leaving ends up watching me turn from splotchy, to splotchier, to splotchiest as my separation anxiety kicks in. Then comes checking in. Where a complete stranger gets to witness my splotchies and recoils in horror as I wipe my runny nose with the same hand I offer them my drivers license with. You'd think by now I'd know to pack kleenex.

Security can be even worse. Especially if you manage to get stuck behind someone that hasn't flown in the past 20 years and hurdles towards the metal detector belt, $20 in quarters and all. Don't forget their massive supply of water in case of a nuclear attack.

And then comes the absolutely, positively worst part of flying. The point where I have to check my control issues at the door and trust that two complete strangers can fly a plane better than me. Given the fact that I don't know how to fly a plane, this isn't too much of a stretch. But I can't always help but wonder if the guy piloting my 717 is the same guy that used to carve images of naked women into the desk during high school algebra.

So there I sat. Surrounded by children with dreams of Disney dancing in their head, fidgeting twice as much as I normally would at the prospect of boarding a plane in the pitch black of the storm. Or reducing my face to face time with the Southern Charmer to less than 60 hours. I did the only thing I could think of.

I got out my four leaf clover that the Shamrock Shakira had mailed to me. Put on my lucky evil eyes necklace that my sister-in-law brought me back from Cyrpus. Worked my fingers along the beads of my Holy Hill rosary and prayed the Divine Mercy Chaplet.

A true Catholic girl, through and through.