Obvi we did something terribly wrong to upset our otherwise well-balanced karma. First, we almost drowned in a moment of hilarious terror in Mexico, and now, on our way to Washington, D.C., for the weekend we lost our drivers license and almost missed our plane.
Somehow we and Fagat arrived at the airport mostly on time, and yet from the moment we stepped foot inside the terminal, everything that possibly could go our way - didn't. The boarding passes wouldn't print; no one would tell us how to get them; the line to check-in, even without luggage, was 549420 people deep; security took for ever and, natch, we were selected for extra screening. In a mad dash for the gate, we somehow dropped our ID, which we thought we were clutching tightly in our hand along with our boarding pass. Once we arrived at the actual gate, JetBlue gave us even more problems. "When will the final boarding be?" we asked. "I don't know, maybe 5 minutes, maybe 10, maybe 1," was the reply. "Do we have time to go back to security and see if they found our ID?" I pleaded. "Well, I don't know, but I do know you're wasting time asking me" said the ticket agent. We mean, honestly, couldn't he have just told us.
We make a split second decision: it's either (possibly) retrieve our ID or board the plane. Doing both seems impossible, so we board the plane, sans idee what we'll do in D.C., a heavy carding jurisdiction, to drink heavily, which of course was our entire reason for visiting. We take our seat (actually we first sat in someone else's because we were so flustered). Sweat dripped down our reddened face, and we thought the person beside us was going to ask to be reseated.
As the plane was about to leave the gate, the ticket agent ran onboard. He made an announcement to the plane, and my heart started racing: "Is LL onboard?" This must mean they found our ID. We shook our hands in the air furiously. "We're here, we're here." And then, without explanation, and without any sign that my license had indeed been found, he left, locked the door, and we began our50 minute in-flight deliberation about how, exactly, to get some form of ID from New York to DC to a) Get into Cobalt and b) Get into the Supreme Court Tuesday (the stated legitimate purpose of our trip to DC, a visit to One First Street).
If anyone has any ideas, please call us. We're currently using the real ID of someone we look nothing like except for the dark hair. But using a friend's ID just feels so 1990s, and while some bartenders may let it pass, we think maybe CJ Roberts will be able to see past the ruse.*
That's it. We have terrible karma, and someone is trying to send us a message that we really effed up this time and are not getting off without a few hiccups in our otherwise well-laid plans. We're planning on lying low for a while until we recover from these two most recent crises. Our not so optimistic mother told us that terrible things happen in threes (note to mom: of three children, so far only two have come out of the closet), and after nearly drowning and losing any form of government identification, we're a little nervous about what the Karma Police have in store for us next.
*(ed.: With the amazing help of KMZ and Alice B, we actually expect to have our passport arrive in DC Sunday night. So please, hold your calls).
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