Expiration Isn't Everything: Part 1

Our next guest blogger, Simone Passarelli, is a freshman in college. And you remember those lovely freshman writing courses where you had to write about some life experience. [An aside: At Brandeis we called it a UWS, which by the end I just convinced myself stood for an Utter Waste of Space--it really stood for University Writing Seminar--because one of our assignments from our professor--who was certainly at the very least borderline gay, especially judging by his infatuation with Jay--was to watch Moulin Rouge and write an essay about it.] Well most of us had something pretty boring to write our life experience. Simone--certainly--did not. I would say that the names have been changed to protect the innocent, but, well, I didn't feel that did anyone justice. And this story is as real (and as exciting) as it gets. So, without further ado, here's our next guest blogger, Simone: (Since it was an essay, we'll break it down into two parts--part one today and part two tomorrow. Enjoy!)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sarah, my twenty-four-year-old sister, stood behind me with a “what-did-you-do-this-time” raised eyebrow look as I tried swiping my passport at JFK’s self-check-in counter for the fifth time. Still no luck.

“I’m sorry ma’am, your passport isn’t registering. Could I please see that for a second?” the narrow-faced woman behind the counter said to me. I realized it wasn’t working, but surely I wasn’t so incompetent that I couldn’t handle airport self-check-in. I handed my passport to the lady and she glanced from it to me and back down again.

“Your passport’s expired,” she stated bluntly. Sarah’s head shot in my direction at inhuman speed.

“What Simone? No, like really?!” I saw the sharp intake of breath fill her lungs. The woman behind the counter handed the passport back to me, and it looked like she suddenly realized the effect her blunt news would have on my sister and my day. Sarah and I looked down at it in a hurry, hoping for some mistake. There was no mistake.

“Simone, this isn’t just recently expired, it’s seven months expired!” Now that’s just embarrassing. Looking over at Sarah, I felt like the world’s biggest jerk. This trip to the Bahamas had been her idea; it was a graduation present and our last chance to bond during my summer before college, after which she would stay in Manhattan and I would begin packing for UVM. She was also funding this six-night vacation with Sheraton points from her credit card that she had been saving for the occasion. The Frequent Flyer Miles providing our tickets may or may not have been stolen from my dad’s account, but the fact that Sarah has access to the account number is just another example of her resourcefulness. And today, on one of her few precious vacation days, standing with bags full of sundresses and bikinis, having woken up at three a.m. and paid for a town car to JFK, I had fucked it all up.

The woman, who’s nametag I now noticed claimed her name to be “Barbara,” now appeared very concerned, perhaps for what was going to happen to me at the hands of my sister’s heightening wrath. But Sarah, who always gains an extra layer of importance when in the role of a customer, stepped in front of me and asked, “So is there anything you can do to get us there?” Barbara looked at the two of us—my ashamed face and Sarah’s increasingly anxious expression.

“Let me see what I can do,” she responded. While Barbara disappeared for a while to whisper with various colleagues, I was left to deal with Sarah on my own.

“Sarah, I’m so sorry…. I’m such an idiot. I didn’t even think to—”

“Whatever, Simone, let’s just keep it cool until we figure it all out. This seems pretty typical of you anyway. Like, I really can’t believe this is happening. I highly doubt we’ll ever make it there. If we don’t, you can just stay with me in the city and we’ll play around, and it will be cheaper. But you owe me, big time.” She put a lot of emphasis on that last part.

As Barbara tried to work her magic, and we could tell she wasn’t getting too much positive feedback by her expression, I thought of everything we were about to miss; our hotel room with its huge king-sized hotel bed, a beach with sparkling blue water, the warmth of the sun and the way it feels to walk through fine, sun-warmed sand. I destroyed everything.

The worst part was that Sarah was right to call this typical of me. I am so consistently flaky that I ruined even the best present she could give. And as we stood in anxious silence waiting to hear that we wouldn’t be needing those bikinis, I knew what was the unsaid truth that hung between us. Sarah is successful and responsible with a well-paying office job in Manhattan, always the family planner and mediator, and the person you trust to organize an important event. She’s so organized that when I’m at school and need help with those little logistical things far beyond my comprehension, I call her over my mom. Then there is me, with the family reputation for losing important things like cell phones and iPods, breaking things, always being late and spacey and forgetful. But now it was past the point of a joking matter. This time my mistake was downright selfish and I felt like the scum of the earth. Despite the six-year difference between us, my clear lack of ability to complete the simplest tasks in life was not due to a difference in age; her adeptness in life and my lack-there-of had always been apparent. It’s not like I don’t try to improve my ways—I really do, so there must be something actually wrong with my brain’s nerve endings or something. I guess it had finally caught up with me...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
To be continued...