Friday was my day to get things done.  Tooling around in my CRV, I opened the sunroof and blasted the XM.  I hit Super Target, Total Wine (oh…my…heaven), and Barnes and Noble.  I had been eyeing Rick Steves’ guide to Paris for weeks but refused to buy it at its New York price.  Looking at it on the shelf, checking out its more reasonable Atlanta price, I still wondered if I should get it.  I mean, the pictures were sparse–and in black and white.  And there were a lot of words!  In short, it looked pretty boring.  I felt the call of the chick-lit section then wondered if Stieg Larsson’s latest had come out.  The tour tome still in my hand, I decided to be a big girl and take some responsibility for learning about the city I was about to visit.  I’ve always depended on other people for that, which is why I walked away from Italy learning that Siena is very old and…um…wine.  There was wine.  I took the book to the counter and paid for it, even picking up a Barnes and Noble membership in the process and striking up a lovely conversation with the cashier about Paris.  The last time I struck up a conversation with a bookstore cashier was at Borders on 30th and 2nd in the city, where the dude asked if I was writing a nonfiction book (I was purchasing How to Sell Your Nonfiction Book) and learned that he was, as well.  On Korean cinema.  Niche! I thought.  Doubt I’ll hear anyone around these parts say that, which I am totally fine with.

So I headed home to unload a trunk full of wine and food, and my trusty guide.  A few minutes later, I was sitting on the couch waiting for the BF to get home so we could hit Brio.  Wondering what to do with myself for the next half hour (I had already reached my limit for the day of checking email and Facebook), I grudgingly grabbed Rick Steves and opened the pages like a kid doing her homework.  I breezed through the section on what to bring until I reached the part where he told me that to travel in Europe, my passport would need to be good for another four to six months.  Lame, I thought, what’s the point of the expiration date if it expires months before that? Then, another thought:  Where is my passport? I pictured various spots in my mind, all of which were located in New York apartments.  I ran to the bathroom, checking cabinets.  Damn all this space! I ran to the other bathroom, checking those cabinets.  I checked my underwear drawer, where I used to keep it and actually turns out to be a good place for it.  Except it wasn’t there.  On the verge of tears, I re-checked the bathroom drawer I had just visited and found it.  Sigh of relief.  Then:  Wait…when does it expire? I opened the cover and, in slow motion, followed the type to the expiration date. February 14, 2010. NOOOOOO!!!!!!

The next few minutes were adrenaline-pumped and tear-stained.  I alternately ran Google searches on expedited passports, cried, asked God why, ran more searches, called some leads, found out how much I would be paying for this mistake, and cried again. When the BF got back, I told him what happened.  He smiled non-mockingly at my tears and got the rundown from me: the soonest I could get a new passport would be Wednesday.  We were flying out Tuesday.  He called British Airways and, as I sniffled in the fetal position a few feet away, postponed our flight one day.  I called the nearest passport expediting company and booked an appointment for the next day.  It should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: at no point during this debacle did the BF look at me like I was as stupid as I felt, nor did he once use any pronoun other than we.  I messed up, but it was fixable, and I had help.  Good thing one of us is rational.

Of course, he and the Sis both made the point later that it was a blessing I had checked my passport when I did, rather than finding out at the airport that I would not, in fact, be going to Europe this week.  Oh yeah…silver linings and such, I thought.  I tend to forget about those until someone on my team reminds me.  Back when my plans used to get frustrated at every turn (because they were terrible plans), I would wonder why God picked on me so much.  Now, as I prepare to board a flight with the BF and spend a week with him in England and Paris, I can see what He kept me from–and saved me for.