The Worst Travel Day Ever

Think Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. That's how bad this is going to get.

I'll start at the beginning: 

This morning was lovely and unproblematic - I woke up on time and packed up my backpack and camera bag for a quick walk and subway ride to the dirty sugar studio. I arrived alongside my wonderful boss, Jason, and we commenced coffee drinking, yogurt eating, and editing our two shoots from this weekend.

All sounds well and good, right? Just wait for it.

In preparation for my travels back to Rochester, I purchased an online Greyhound ticket for a 2:45 bus leaving from Port Authority. I finished up my work at the studio and hit the deck with over an hour (more than sufficient) to get myself to the station.  

But: then the L train decided to do what the L train does best, and I found myself trapped underground in a subway car/meat locker with countless questionable strangers for countless frrrrrustrating minutes (read: 30ish). 

By the time I hoofed my sweaty self to Port Authority (by now, even more frustrated), I was five whole minutes late. Five. Five minutes. Goodbye bus! See ya later Rochester! 
I (as politely as possible) asked the super nice and accommodating Greyhound desk clerk if there was any way the bus might not have left yet. NOPE.
Okay, plan B: May I use my ticket for the next outgoing bus? Yes. Phew!
  It leaves at 7:30.

(If only that were going to cut it. Stay with me)

I took a breath, walked away from the desk, and found myself searching for a quiet place to sit. Upon finding an empty piece of grungy cement floor, I collapsed and wept for abouuuut 20 minutes. And by wept I mean: as-all-out-as-it-gets without drawing too  much attention to oneself since you're, after all, curled up on the grungy floor of the New York City Port Authority surrounded by even more questionable strangers than the ones you avoided eye contact with in that cold-ass subway car. Oh, and now they want to talk to you. Suddenly a man is approaching (excuse me sir, can't you see I'm deliberately shielding my face and wimpering right now?) and asking you for the time. 

3 oh fucking clock, thank you very much. Yes, I'm fine. Go away. 

Soon, another man is approaching and asking if I'm alright. Turns out he's a fancy schmancy police officer, probably trying to do the right thing, but making me feel even more worthless and stupid than before (as if that were possible) by drawing additional attention to my pathetic-tude.
At this point I'm so confused about my extremely excessive emotional turmoil (really, all ya did was miss the damn bus. Get it together, Lydia), that I actually think for a moment that I might be in trouble.
Is it a crime to cry in public? The officer left.

But then! Another officer approaches and offers to take me to the police office where I can "Cry my eyes out" (I kid you not) in private.
HELLLLLLL yes. Take me to there. 
As we walk through the station, he explains that Port Authority is in fact super skeevy and full of lurker/kidnapper/rapist people, and that since I "look about 17" (yeah, thanks man), it probably isn't safe to be bawling openly with my head in my hands...on the floor...

Okay, fair enough. 

Side note: This second officer actually turned out to be quite sweet, and played me an amazing, humbling, magic music video, whose artist and song title I forgot as soon as it ended. He also played me Lydia the Tattooed Lady . And if you don't know what that is, look it the hell up before we speak again.

During my calming down session in the police office (really...what?), I decided that sitting in Port Authority with the sketch-balls and the kidnappers for another 4 hours and then sitting on a cramped bus with more of the anti-eye-contact folks from the meat locker for 7 hours was simply not something I was prepared to do.
So! I booked a flight from Laguardia to Boston(?) to Rochester and started the trek up to Queens. I arrived with little over an hour before my departure time, and rather than stand in the ridiculous, serpentinian line which would undoubtedly take 2 hours and cost me another break-down, I just skipped right ahead to the front and checked in. Now, believe you me, I hate  when people budge, especially if everyone else has been agonizing in line for eternity, but I just could NOT be in New York any longer. I love ya, NYC, but here!!

I shoved my way through security, found myself a bacon cheeseburger, and waited as my flight was delayed...and delayed...and delayed. 
Then I arrived in Boston and waited while that happened again...and again...and again. Seriously, how I didn't cry during this section of the saga, you've got me.
Plum outta tears, I'd guess.

Other than a super loud snorey-man behind me on the second flight, all went well and I made it home safely. To a very rainy Rochester (surprise, surprise).

And now I'm in my boyfriend's coziest sweatpants, filling my face with equal parts ice cream and pasta before my brain starts to literally seep its way out through my ears. It's been that kinda day people.
Oh, but you already know that because you just read the longest blog post Lydia Billings will ever write. Ever. You're welcome, and I'm sorry. 

Goodnight, you terrible beast of a day.