But it’s got to get worse before it can get better, right? As you’re reading this, I’m probably sitting in the airport terminal enduring a lengthy delay due to inclement weather in the Northeast. It would figure that it’s got to hail and sleet and snow on the one day, after the 670 days I’ve sat home staring at my laptop, that we actually plan to evacuate for parts more tropical and breezy.

It’s not just the weather that poses a challenge to the Madmarriage plans. It would also figure that one day before departure, a battery of tests come back positive for chronic inflammation of the uterine lining. Turns out theres some itty bitty micro-organism thrashing around in there and only an antibiotic regime of startling complexity will remedy what ails me. If this isn’t a case of the cure being worse than the disease, well I don’t know what it is. A pill must be swallowed four times a day, one hour before eating and two to three hours after a meal. I am not to lay down for thirty minutes after taking the medication which pretty much rules out the plan of taking two of the four doses in the middle of the night so I can resume normal levels of nutrient consumption by day.

Trying to follow the medication schedule only highlights the fact that I must, on a normal basis, eat absolutely all day. I’m practically starving with the limitations of this pill taking regime. And I can’t wait for the other side effects, aside from starvation, to kick in. I kid you not, the following ailments are listed as possible side effects of the drug: nausea, vomiting, diarrhea (great fun on fully booked flights), mouth sores, a black hairy tongue (yes, I did say a black hairy tongue. WTF?), sore throat, dizziness, head ache, rectal discomfort (again, WTF?), sensitivity to the sun (perfect for my beach vacation), nail discoloration, muscle pain, difficult or painful swallowing, brown/gray tooth discoloration, numbness of the hands and feet, fatigue, hearing changes (What’s that you say? Someone is trying to kill me?), oral thrush and yeast infection, and that’s just if all goes well. I’m supposed to just sit back and endure the black, hairy tongue and the tooth discoloration but should sit up and take notice, call my doctor (who is obviously trying to poison me) if I should develop a fever, the chills, acute abdominal pain, bloody stool, white patches in my mouth, trouble breathing, chest pains and a fast irregular heart beat.

I’m trying to accept the inevitability of all this. It’s Murphy’s Law, right? Plan a trip to Florida and the Gods will smite thee with pestilence and dramatic weather events. So wish me luck, on-time air travel, a pink healthy tongue and cooperative high pressure systems for the next seven days.

I will try to post a few times from my parents’ retirement community but I’m not sure they’ve discovered wireless access down in those parts. It’s still dial-up and regular cable television. It’s simple living. I will adapt.

I am pathologically previous and insist on reaching the airport several hours in advance of every flight in case I am asked to strip at security. All goes well in this arena. I am congratulated by TSA employees for having successfully grouped and zip-locked all my 3 oz. bottles of cosmetics and toiletries. I wear slip on shoes. I leave the pistol at home in the night stand. I am not asked to remove my clothes save for my belt that turns out to be innocent.

All this lead up and thoughtful preparation -the departure, the arrival, the connection, the departure, the arrival AND just 38 hours later the same routine performed all over again -and I feel qualified to pass on some useful tips to the folks over at the Transportation Security Administration.

First, please advise the Atlanta airport management not to play Christmas carols on a constant loop while increasingly anxious passengers watch the departure time of their outgoing flight rolled back by the hour. “Sorry folks, it’s weather in the Midwest,” said the nice man with the microphone. And we all snarled. A collective growl went up as we settled in to endure another round of Sleigh bells ring/Are you listening? Yes, we ARE listening. Still.

Second, and I realize this totally flies in the face of the TSA civil rights policy statement, but shouldn’t there be a sort of fixed size in regard to passengers? While carry-on baggage is required to fit some sort of template at the gate, each suitcase, duffel bag and knapsack must fit comfortably within the little box set out by each airline, Delta’s template is 45″ total, while AirTran accepts a whopping 55″ bag, no such parameters exist for people. And, trust me, people come in ALL shapes and sizes, some of which do not fit comfortably in the coach section of a commercial airliner.

The woman who sat in the center seat of our three-seat aisle was, how do I put it politely – extremely large; the man who sat in the seat next to her was, ahem, cough, not quite as big but still morbidly obese. Which forced me, the window seat passenger, up against the cold plastic porthole of the airplane window, wedged sideways, shoulders facing away from beverage cart for the entire three hour leg of my journey. The kind and ‘extremely large’ woman next to me kept saying, “Lordy, Lordy, I should have paid for the upgrade and gone business class because I can no longer feel my left thigh.” And I grimaced, just managing to nod my agreement, nose pressed firmly to the window, arms pinned tightly to my sides.

Third, there is a startling omission from the prohibited carry-on items list. While firearms and Roman candles, normal sized toothpaste and cigar cutters all made the No-Go list, highlighter markers are still allowed on board. And a highlighter marker in the hands of a over-zealous twenty something feverishly reading Personal Finance for Dummies is a dangerous thing. First there is the chemical smell of the marker that permeates the cabin and lingers there in the foul fog of bad breath and gas and the burrito being eaten in Row 15 and then there is the incessant squeak, squeak of the marker tip as it is passed over each and every line of every page in the 500-page book. Like nails on a chalkboard, the sound of enthusiastic learning can be heard over the dull roar of the engines. The adjacent passenger is forced to disagree with the earnest student’s method, pointing out that marking every word in fluorescent pink is sort of beside the point. Suggesting that rather than marking every line, maybe she should leave all the gems unmarked and only highlight the really unimportant. She shrugged, remained unconvinced and went back to marking up the text in its entirety.

Fourth, all passengers who have spent an entire weekend boozing and closing down bars in the Delray Beach area, all individuals who are depleted, over-tired and emotionally too fragile for the poignant tragedy that unfolds within the novel, should be required to forfeit their copy of The Road by Cormac McCarthy before completing their journey home. TSA personnel should be on the look out for a certain type in order to avert the weepy scene that unfolds on board that includes nose wiping on seat-backs and the complimentary pillow. “All artificially blonde, Mom-ish women with blood shot eyes and trembling hands and not a bit of Kleenex on their person, please step aside and surrender the post-apocalyptic story of journey made by a father and son through the hellish landscape of a world populated by desperate thieving, cannibalistic gangs.”

Just a suggestion.