Airport Lost & Found: Attention Deficits

Regular readers of my blog know that I am a textbook case of attention-deficit disorder. The lost bits of paper, the missed dates, the “sorry, so sorry” refrains, a sad, simple ballad (best sung by an ADDer).

So of all the crazy things I’ve done throughout the last month in unemployment land, I have to say that this might take the cake. What happened? Well, in my blog post yesterday, I talked about being in Florida this week, but omitted the brain-unraveling part.

The morning of the flight, I'd bulldozed the belongings into bags, then dashed out. When I finally arrived to check in at the kiosk, the machine noted that it would not permit me to check in, because I was at the wrong airport. Time stopped for a second.

I was at the wrong airport.

The 60-year-old (who had driven me to the airport) was patient, calm as a cucumber. We grabbed the luggage carrying my life and belongings, and headed to the right airport. On the way, the friend said, half jokingly, "Check the ticket at the kiosk again to make sure you have the right day."

My life with adult attention deficit disorder (ADD/ADHD) now sounds like a Seinfeld episode, only it is not funny. The unraveling continued as I ordered lunch at a fast food joint and scurried off after snatching the drink—not realizing until on board that I’d forgotten to pick up the meal.

I am worn down and tired. What I really want is to be surrounded by people like me once again. ADD people, longing for a safe haven, and a separate peace.