Have you ever done something really, really stupid? If so, did you go public with it?

I’m fessing up. Probably not smart – but maybe if I own up to it publicly, it’ll never happen again. Or, so I hope.

Here goes: I have a habit of cutting it really close with my flights. I consistently underestimate how long it’ll take me to drive to the airport, park the car, get the shuttle, check in, go through TSA, etc. etc. etc.

So much so that I – the travel professional – have missed flights before. Yes, that is plural. I missed a flight to Panama for a site inspection several years ago. Missed a flight to Cabo last year (with a friend/client in tow, too!). And many years ago I missed the boat – literally – when I erroneously thought departure time was 6 pm. (I arrived at the Vancouver port at 5 pm to see my Alaska-bound cruise ship heading out to sea.)

Anyway, back to Tuesday:

I arrived at LAX at 8:45 AM. My niece, Seiko, was flying home to Japan on a flight that departed at 11 AM. Plenty of time to get her checked in at Delta in Terminal 5, and for me to go to Terminal 2 for my Aeromexico flight to Santiago, Chile.

I had a thought: “Wouldn’t it be funny – with all this extra time I have –  if I still missed my flight?”

(Be careful what you think!)

I was booked in business class, so I went upstairs to the lounge for coffee and a bite to eat. I connected to wifi, checked my emails and had some back-and-forth conversations with my business attorney.

When it was time to board, I made my way downstairs toward Gate 26. I heard my name being paged. Huh? I made a run for it, but it was too late. When I got there, they had closed the doors!

OMG, I missed my flight. I got to the airport hours ago and, still, I missed my flight! I MISSED MY FLIGHT!

“How could that possibly happen?” you ask.

That’s a very good question. I’m still grappling with it myself.

I must say – in my feeble defense – it was only 1:35 PM. I looked at the board which showed scheduled departure of 1:40 PM. What airline ever leaves early? And why did I think departure was at 2 PM?

I could blame it on chemo. That’s what my stepdaughter, Ashley, always encourages me to do. But I cannot, in good conscience, do that. Or, I could claim that I hadn’t reset my watch to Daylight Savings Time. Or, I could blame it on the attorney. But I have no good excuse. I was careless, overconfident (after all, I had SOOO much time) and confused about the departure time. There’s no excuse. I screwed up – big time.

The inner squabble was intense: “Stupid, stupid, Marilyn! How could you be so careless?” 

Another voice was saying: “It’ll work out. It’s not the end of the world. Mistakes happen …”

I take a deep breath and ignore the pointless internal dialogue. Tuning into my logical mind, I analyze my situation:

• I had planned to travel two nights in advance of an industry trade show. I’d just miss a night in Valparaiso – not a big deal.
• There is no other flight option today.
• Nobody is impacted by this screw-up, other than me.
• I’m on a mileage ticket, so there won’t be any penalty (I hope…).
• I’ll just rebook for tomorrow’s flight.

And then I had another thought: Luggage! What about my luggage??

The gate agent pointed out to the tarmac and said, “Your luggage is there. We pulled it off the flight when you didn’t show.” I looked out to see my suitcase sitting forlornly on the tarmac.

Somebody, please explain: how do they retrieve a single suitcase from among the hundreds of pieces of baggage loaded onboard a Boeing 787 Dreamliner??

But the worst part is what I must do next. I must call Gabriel.

He’s my 2nd in command, a whiz at everything related to air, and has saved my butt more times than I care to mention. I cannot avoid sharing this humiliating, embarrassing blunder with my staff. There will be hell to pay in the form of incessant teasing about this latest incident. But I know he’ll fix it and get me on tomorrow’s flight.

True to form, he handled it deftly and efficiently. Within minutes, I was re-booked for the next day’s flight. I thanked him profusely and gave him permission to chastise me. His response was a bit backhanded: “My mother always said, ‘if you can’t say anything nice…’”  Ouch.

I retrieved my lonely suitcase at baggage claim and plotted my next move. I could book a room at the airport. Appropriate punishment would be an overnight at one of the seedier hotels on Aviation Blvd. Even my internal critic thinks that’s a bad idea.

I decided to take the FlyAway bus to Van Nuys – which I hadn’t done in many years, since I moved out of the San Fernando Valley. It was the most economical option to get me halfway home. I called my trusty Executive Assistant, Ellen, to fetch me and drive me home. The FlyAway bus pulled up to the green zone curb within minutes. And Ellen pulled up to the curb at the FlyAway Terminal within minutes of my arrival there. At least something was going according to plan!

When I do stupid things like this, I am less inclined to beat myself up and chastise me than I once was. I try to think of some positive consequence. In this case, I knew Scott would be happy to see me, as would the kitties. Plus, there’s a class I take on Tuesday nights called, “Consciousness of Success.” Hmmm . . . what does this experience teach me about the importance of being conscious?

I booked an early shuttle for Wednesday morning and set an alarm on my phone for 12:40 PM with the instructions: “GO TO GATE!” At least I was already packed!

I learned that my staff had a meeting at which they decided that they would all chip in to pay the surcharge for me to travel as an “Unaccompanied Minor” so that I’d be escorted onto the airplane. (Everybody’s a smart ass . . .)

Throughout the day, I texted Gabriel with photographic evidence of my progress:

• “On the shuttle”
• “At the ticket counter”
• “At TSA”
• “In the lounge”
• “Heading down to the gate”
• “At the gate”
• “Boarding in Group 1”
• “On the jetway”
• and, finally, a selfie: “In my seat”

He couldn’t resist one last jab. “But are you sure you’re on the correct flight? Remember that you’re going to Mexico City, not Montreal or Honolulu . . . .”

And when I texted him this morning to advise that I had arrived safely in Santiago, I’m told he wondered out loud, “I wonder if she’s in Santiago, Chile or Santiago, Spain … .?”

Serves me right . . .

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Comments? Have you ever missed a flight or done something stupid (and are willing to admit it)?