That Voice . . .

You know that little voice inside your head?

The voice behind the wagging finger?

The one that tells you want you should be doing…or should have done? Well, my little voice was talking all kinds of trash.

It may or may not have been why I was doing the OJ through JFK Thursday morning. (By OJ, I don’t mean perhaps stabbing "my" woman or high-speed racing cops down the freeway with the world watching. I mean sprinting through the airport jumping over suitcases ala Samsonite commercials from back when OJ was a rock-starish football hero.)

I was flying from JFK to Burlington, Vermont. My flight was scheduled for 9:10 am. My friend and fellow #VCFA UN (Unreliable Narrator), Cindy Faughnan was picking me up in Burlington.

Looking into the mirror can a dive into the Black Hole…

Excited about the trip, seeing friends, being back with writing friends, I was packed up, alarms—3 of them—set and ready to go with plenty of time, I thought . . .

But. . .

I may have pushed snooze

May have started daydreaming in the shower

May have used the high-magnification side of the make-up mirror—even though I hadn’t allowed time to apply make up at all—which showed a few errant eyebrow bristles that had to be plucked before I could leave. . .

(Where, I ask, was that darn little voice during all of that? It should have been warning me, telling me, hurrying me, but NO. . . )

So, I left home a little later—only 18 minutes—than planned. Big deal, I thought . . .

But. . . a highway lane was closed

                Traffic was horrid

                There was no gas station after the JFK exit . . .

So, I'm turning off the highway, onto the rental car return street, with about an hour to go before my flight was scheduled to leave. That’s when the little voice pipes up:

“You’re going to miss the flight.”

I’m trying not to listen but . . .

. . . That voice is loud, incessant:

“Why bother?” It’s telling me. “Turn around, find another gas station, fill up your tank, maybe get some breakfast cause there is no way in hell you’re making that flight, lady.”

That niggling little voice was persuasive. I could feel my foot lifting off the accelerator, could feel my arm muscles flex, ready to crank a U-Turn and go back to a gas station.

“La-la-la I don’t hear you,” I said, resigned to not refill the tank. “So, I’ll have to pay the rental car company premium for those few gallons,” I reasoned. “It’s less expensive than missing the flight.” I gunned the engine, roared into the rental car lot, pulled into the car return line. But. . . Where was the attendant? The shuttle bus was pulling away and there was no attendant!!!

“Told you!” said that little voice. “You’re too late. No way can you make the flight, now.”

Oh, yeah? Leaving the keys in, the car idling, I grabbed my suitcases, ran for the shuttle, tossed them inside and was about to ask the driver to call someone, when the attendant ambled out. “I’m going to be late,” I told him. “Please, check me in. Do I have to wait here?” I must have had that look on my face, because he kicked it into high, checked in the car and handed me the receipt before the shuttle door closed. (No questions about the lower fuel—I’m sure I’ll get an email about that soon.)

“Terminal 5,” I said.

The driver said: “You know we don’t go to the terminal. We stop at the Air Train.”

The little voice said:

“Give up already. No way you’re going to make this flight.”

“Yeah, but I can try.”

As that shuttle pulled up to that long, white tunnel leading to the escalator rising up to another escalator, to the Air Train station, with the huge Flight Board where all the flights, terminal numbers, gates, times and flight status posted overhead. And that little voice kept niggling, louder, as I searched the board for my flight where the status column was blinking, flashing in green: BOARDING.

So? So maybe I will miss my flight. But. . . maybe I won’t.

On the Airtrain, I tried using my phone to check-in for my flight, again. (I’d tried checking in 23 hours earlier, but hadn’t been able to.)  But this time it did. Which bought me some time—and gave me hope—All I needed to do was get to the gate before boarding closed…

But . . . The Airtrain stop at terminal 5 is a long corridor, 3 escalators, and another long corridor and an escalator down to Check-in and Bag-Drop and there were all sorts of slow-walking, weaving, lagging people not in a hurry between me and checking-in.

And the clock was ticking inside, and my guts were twisting and that little voice was saying:  

“You screwed up bad. You are not going to make this flight. Why did you put on make-up? You hadn’t planned for it. Why did you even bother showering? Why did you go to sleep at all? No way are you going to make this flight. . . ”

But . . . Maybe I can.

And maybe out of spite, when I tried to check in for my flight, the check-in kiosks couldn’t read my passport. “Told you,” taunted that little voice.

Shut up,  I told it, and tried again, using my name. It worked! But a notice flashed saying it was too late to check bags and asked if I wanted to proceed without checking bags.

“You can’t do that,” said that little voice. “You have 2 bags and a purse. Besides, you probably have liquids in that bag you were going to check, too. You’re gonna get beeped…”

Maybe. Maybe not.

I completed the check-in, took my boarding pass and sped to the TSA pre-check line. The TSA guard was very nice and smiley as he told me my bag was too big, and I had too many, and he didn’t want to lose his job.  And that little voice laughed and laughed. 

Go on, laugh… I thought, and I didn't budge. I waited, with my eyes, urging the TSA guard to have pity. “Ask one of them to give permission for you to proceed," he said, directing me to the airline counter.

It was minutes until the Gate closed. The security line was long. The little voice was probably right: I was going to miss that flight.

Still, I did as directed. I walked—did not run—over to the Check-in desk. When the attendant asked what I wanted and I started tattling:

“That TSA guard wouldn’t let me go through,” I tattled. . . . “And now I’m going to miss my flight—” If I wasn’t actually, physically pouting, I was mentally, and that Jet Blue agent, may have been somebody’s mother, because she took my boarding pass. “Follow me,” she said, and started toward the long security line.  And the now smiling “I’m on your side” TSA guard, waved me through.

“You’re still not going to make it,” that little voice was saying as I hoisted my 3 bags—which included the one I had planned to check that may or may not have liquids inside—onto the security belt.

“This is taking way too long,” that little voice taunted as my purse and boots went through the machine, then my first bag, but stalled with my 2nd bag, my may-have-liquids-or-a-corkscrew-inside-should-have-been-checked bag inside.

“GIVE IT UP!” that little voice hollered, as the security guard hauled my bag over to the machine for manual inspection and to be swabbed for explosives.

That little taunting, niggling, needling voice was making me crazy. But . . . 

Even when I looked up at the Flight Status sign and saw a bold, all caps CLOSED sign next to my flight, even though the gate my flight was leaving from was—through the tangled Starbucks line—farthest away, I kept going.

“It’s gone!” that little voice said, “You screwed up. You are a mess. You blew it, sister!” as I passed Starbucks and the Gate sign came into view, and beneath and around it I saw a huge crowd gathered, and my spirits began to lift, my hopes soar: Maybe I hadn’t missed it! They’re still boarding.

“Yeah right…”said the little voice.

And it was right. It wasn’t my gate. The crowd wasn’t for my flight. My gate was the empty gate next to it. 

I slowed. Excused my way through the crowd and walked toward the attendant at the empty check-in desk at my gate.  She was talking with another woman who might or might not be a passenger—please be a passenger.  The gateway door was still open. As I approached with my 2 bags and purse, red-faced and out of breath, cursing that little voice, the attendant motioned that other woman aside. She looked at me and said, “Mrs. Bennett? We’ve been waiting for you.”

That’s the thing about that little voice:  It’s gonna talk.

There is not one single thing we can do about that. There’s no way to silence it, either. (At least I can’t. And I’ve tried.)

But, there is something we can do . . .

NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION #1: Decide not to listen.

Little Voice Playlist:

• Something to Talk About by Bonnie Raitt

• Leaving on a Jet Plane by Peter, Paul & Mary

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