By storm?

"Storm" can be a loose term, but not if you're from Minnesota. We know what storms are. Storms are 20-inch-deep assaults of snow that keep you home on New Years Eve because no matter how hard you try, there's absolutely no way you're getting out your driveway. And you have tried. Many times. A storm is not a gentle blanket of snow that illuminates the runway and makes you think, "Aw, that's nice."

Here's me, sitting in the airport. The man next to me is visibly agitated because our flight is late. It may or may not be important to note that he's Asian. He slaps his palm to his forehead multiple times and asks me for the time several more times. I sigh and show him the time on my ipod, remaining composed and aloof, just as one should be in an airport, but on the inside I wonder if I should  ask him what's preventing him from doing the same. I decide not to. It's probably better for both of us that I don't know. I've made a list of ways to attain my new life goal: to be one of the businessmen in airports.
Here's how:
1. Wear a black peacoat and tennis shoes. It shows you're serious, but not too serious. And you have what it takes to make it on time, because you'll run if you have to.
2. Use your phone on speakerphone. That way everyone will know how important you are and how badly the meeting will go if you're not there. But most importantly, how important you are.
3. Shake your head at the people passing the layover in the airport bars. You're classy, you don't need that stuff.

My list is interrupted by the boarding of the plane. I move to the outskirts of the line as to not get trampled by the women with twins in the double-decker stroller. I wonder how she's going to get that on the plane.

Fast-forward two hours later. Still sitting on the plane. We've been informed that the de-icer ran out and we'll probably miss our flights because they had refill. God forbid this light mist of snow takes down the plane. I'm thankful that my agenda has been compromised out of safety.

Fast-forward another hour. Here's me in Chicago O'Hare, sprinting. Make it into line with one minute to spare. Literally. (And you know I don't take that word lightly.) The flight attendant shakes her head, signaling doom. "Sorry, no more." I don't go down without a fight, but that doesn't matter. I stand there as the door closes, wishing I had a sign that says, "Hi, I'm Ashley, please babysit me." Luckily, my ESP worked.  Five friendly Danish men (adults, mind you, with jobs and families and babies and established homes) take me under their wing and help me more forcefully demand to be put up in a hotel. You see, I'm 5' 2" at best. My height gives me the appearance of being undemonstrative. If you weren't aware, the Danish society in general are 6' 5" at least, and strikingly attractive. I'm relieved to see that my odds had risen greatly.
Luckily, I'm booked on the next flight. Unluckily, that's 24 hours from now.

At midnight, back at the hotel, I take stock. Hmm. Glad to see I packed for survival.
Here's what I have:
one bag of half-eaten Goldfish crackers
five paperback books
my passport
my blanket and stuffed dog
my laptop
an empty water bottle
.... aaaand that's it. Good job Ashley.