Does a look of contempt count as proof of life?

7 hours. Multiple catastrophes. None of them real.

Shit, I think I killed Emily.

I do this thing where I think everyone will die unless I keep my ‘it’s-about-to-go-horribly-wrong' detector scanning like it’s life or death — because — duh — it is.

Every 30 minutes on that seven-hour flight, I’d hold my breath, unzip her carrier — did I mention Emily is a cat? — and dive in for proof of life.
I wasn’t asking for much — just the feline version of holding up today’s newspaper: an ear twitch, a flick of the tail, a look of contempt.
I’d have taken anything.

Nothing.
So I prod.

She’s a squeaky-toy version of a cat — you prod, she squeaks.
I prodded — crickets.
Ten squeak-less prods later, I stopped. My worst-case-scenario brain had killed her. A sobbing woman on a plane is just embarrassing for everyone — I know — I've been her.
Also, what was I going to do — hold a funeral at 36,000 feet?
By the time we landed, I was an emotional wreck.
Emily, unaware of the drama, finally opened her eyes and gave me her ‘I am so much better than you’ look.
I took that as a good sign and resisted speed-dialling the taxidermist I once nearly used. That’s a story for another time.

---

Customs was my next hurdle.
What is it about officials that makes me feel guilty?
Time to adopt the ‘Trust me, I’m innocent’ smile — not too big (mustn’t look crazy), just a slight upturn of the mouth. No teeth.

Why do I (we — tell me I’m not the only one) do this?

I blame school.
I was always the kid always in trouble or got caught. I once got sent out of class for looking at the teacher wrong. “Get out. I know what you’re thinking.”
I wasn’t. About her. Or anything. I think I was probably wondering what was for dinner.

Clearly I got the smile wrong. I was pulled over.
I looked on helplessly as they ransacked every bag

Oh god — what if I’m a drug mule?
Can you be a drug mule and not know it?
I can’t even deny it’s my bag — it’s full of cat beds and marmite.
I can’t handle a Mexican prison.
Who would look after Emily?

So I’m not a drug mule — I’m a computer mule?
That’s a thing?
Turns out there’s a limit — and I was an overachiever. I learned that the expensive way — fleeced $100 for being too precious to travel with just one.
I quietly seethed and sent Husband to pay the fine.

Mid-seethe, a new official summoned us and marched us into a backroom.
Time to frisk Emily.

Don’t F*** with my Emily.

I love her. 🥰

Turns out Cancun is full-on Team Cat. The entire airport ground to a halt so everyone could come for a viewing.
I forgave them the $100.

So now the only thing between me and Playa — our new home — was an air-conditioned car and one innocent set of sliding doors.

Swoosh.

“No eye contact — no speaking.”
Our driver warned us. I thought he was just rude.
Not rude — wise.
I’m English, so fake polite is in my DNA.
I couldn’t help myself, I hello’d.
Totally rookie mistake! This wasn’t stealth selling — there were booths!
“Hola! Take this map with you. I’ll mark all the places you should see”
(Translation: Buy timeshare.)

Shit, welcome to phase one of The Shark Tank.
I needed to rude-myself-up fast as ten more Hola’s lay in wait.
I don’t want a f****** timeshare even if it does come with a free breakfast.

Time to engage a different English trait.
I put my blinkers on, pursed my lips, engaged my 'sorry-I-can’t-hear-you' face, and raced to freedom.

I dedicate this to the woman who thought I was dead — I Will Survive, Gloria Gaynor style.

Older, Not Wiser. And weirdly proud of it.