Fail to prepare

I have spouted a mantra in the past when people have teased my “over-preparation” for seemingly routine events: “Fail to prepare, prepare to fail”. And it has served me well.

For example, on a “normal” day I lay out my clothes for the next day and pack my bag before bed. If I’m taking it to another level I will get my boy’s cereal bowl and spoon ready on the kitchen counter.

On special days when I get a 6am flight interstate, I do exactly the same, yet also pre-book my taxi for 4:30am and set my alarm for 4am (despite my wife’s protestations I get to places too early, especially on international flights when we wait in a queue that is not even a queue yet).

I do not know or particularly believe it is all connected to my marriage with anxiety but if it lessens it then it’s a good thing, end of story.

But one of these rituals proved my downfall yesterday. I go to bed with earphones playing a podcast in my ears. Most nights I wake up to find the phone and earphones on the floor or somewhere in the bed. But when you have an alarm set, there’s an unintentional glitch in my plan.

Cue waking up, it is dark, my wife is deep asleep and I spread my arms around me and under my pillow to grab my phone. The screen gives he options “Stop” and “Snooze” but there is no alarm noise. Just deathly silence.

SHEEEEET!!! (exclaimed in my head as to not wake my sleep-loving wife). Frozen, I realise the time says 4:45am, the alarm is going off but the earphones have masked this and my taxi has tried to reach me but since cancelled.

For a moment the negative twin in my brain kicks in, “Mr. Perfect? You will never make the plane now mate, give it up, you have let everyone down, cancel your meetings and quit while you are ahead”.

Thankfully, a bigger force has emerged and adrenaline pumps to every crevice of my body. I leap up, grab some toiletries from the bathroom and my clothes that are hanging so patiently and neatly on the hallway bannister and almost throw myself down the stairs.

The clothes are yanked on, I re-book a taxi as quietly as I can, I grab my bag, swig a bottle of water and run, forgetting the night before I had literally ripped up my heels with blisters from futsal. Skin has been scraped back to expose the red under-layer. Sharp, stabbing pains remind me with every awkward step.

The taxi goes flying past me but eventually comes back. By 5am we are hurtling towards the airport. I am waiting for the “end of the world” wave to flood my mind, drop a boulder on my chest and spread nausea through my stomach.

But nothing. Well, a tiny amount of nerves, but nothing more than usual. For once in my life I am happy the taxi driver does not stop talking and walks me through every single joke and piece of banter he has ever teased a flight attendant with when asked to occupy the emergency exit: “Are you fit to act in an emergency sir?”...”Not after the six beers I’m about to sink love!"

We even make it in time for me to grab a coffee, brush my teeth and board the flight to Melbourne: “This must be what normal people do when catching flights”, I ponder, “It is not that bad after all”.

What resulted was a cluster of the most (unprepared) deep, genuine, warm and productive conversations I could have asked for (about Doctology, Doctorpreneurs and Mr. Perfect).

Perhaps being blasé is the new prepared? I may even live dangerously next time and not pre check-in online.