Greetings from Rhode Island. I'm on the road again, this time to see my oldest son. He and his wife are spending a month in nearby Newport and my plan was a quick weekend to catch up. Fly Friday, hang out Saturday, catch a late flight home Sunday.
But planes will be planes. My connecting flight to Chicago was delayed, which meant I would miss my connection. We actually boarded the regional commuter jet and were then told to get off because of a mechanical. Rather than getting stuck overnight at O'Hare, I opted to get a hotel in downtown Providence. United re-booked my flight without charge and here I am, staying in the same hotel as Ghana's national soccer team.
The lobby is decorated with balloons in the green, yellow, red, and black of their flag. Security is tight. It's actually pretty cool, though there's been no sight of the players themselves and hotel staff are coy about admitting that the team is actually here. I would suggest that the presence of armed policemen at the doors, special barricades behind the hotel to accommodate the arrival of a team bus, and a lobby full of Ghana supporters tells me something is up.
Anyway, that's where I am. Heading back to the airport once I write this missive. I'll find an empty gate and work until it's time to board. I should point out that I have the same tight Providence-Chicago connection as last night. If my flight is delayed there's a very good chance I could be back here again. But I am optimistic.
There are two reasons for this upbeat attitude: other than cross country practice, my dogs, and the fact that I failed to pack a razor, there's really no need to hurry home (the dogs are not alone, for those who might be wondering). This is a unique chance to literally fly by the seat of my pants and see some new sights. If things really go to shit I can find another connection or even Uber to Boston for more flight options.
The other cause for optimism is intentional. Just yesterday, I read some disturbing statistics in the New York Times about men my age who lose a spouse. We get sad. Now, I read this in a moment of great happiness. This weekend with my son and daughter-in-law was marvelous. They even had me primed to do karaoke, which I've never attempted. But the bar hosting it (The Quencher) was closed for a private Pride celebration and we went elsewhere to hear live music and drink a few of pints of Captain's Daughter. I have a feeling karaoke is still in my future, though it will probably happen when I join them in Italy for Christmas.
Back to optimism. The Times suggests that the antidote for sadness is intentional optimism. Wake up every day and pinpoint something you look forward to doing. It could be as simple as a conversation with a friend or a special activity. I see the point in this and will attempt to do so, though it strikes me as the "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" school of fixing a complicated problem. Just will it to go away.
But I am sad. I'm not wallowing in it, or pretending it's not a thing. This is a big life change, solitary me gallivanting around the globe to escape my Groundhog Day routine.
The Times also tells me that men who "try to hit a home run" by getting a six-pack or running a marathon do more poorly in this process than those who just do a normal workout 3-4 times a week. Frankly, I was relying on the home run: walk the Santiago, run a marathon, climb Kilimanjaro. Not all. Just one.
Maybe I will. Today I'm going with optimism. I like that word "intentional" in the description. It means choosing to find ray of sunshine rather than stumbling upon its existence. I look no further than the lobby. There's a Ghana banner stating "THE TIME IS NOW" attached to a pillar by the elevators. That's Ghana saying they're hoping to win the World Cup. That's intentional optimism. If they can think that way, despite the overwhelming odds against them (currently 400-1), no reason I can't do the same. It starts by believing I'll make the connection in Chicago this afternoon. Need to get back to my teams and dogs. I miss them.