Promise #19: Keep it simple

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If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.

-Mark Twain

Promise #18: Develop a craw-clearing plan

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I just learned that when something is stuck in your craw it means stuck in your throat. I always thought it meant something was stuck somewhere else. “Stuck” is an uncomfortable word and “craw” is butt-ugly, hence my assumption.

I had something stuck in my craw on Memorial Day. I was cleaning up after a little get-together and a huge, unopened bottle of Jack Daniels slipped from my hands and landed on the stone floor. It was late. I was tired. The day shattered at my feet. I spent an hour cleaning before I walked away from a Pine Sol and whiskey cocktail with a boat-load of ‘tude stuck in my craw, but I didn’t tell a soul. I tore through the night…alone.

Isn’t that stupid? I let a mindless accident ruin a fabulous day. That’s not going to happen again. Here’s my four-step craw-clearing plan. The minute I realize I’m choking I’m going to:

1. Cough (very) loudly. I’m not a doctor, but I believe the best way to clear my throat is to cough.  Added bonus: coughing creates noise. Noise attracts people. People are inherently caring. Someone might help me feel better. If that doesn’t work I will…
2. Drink (very) slowly. I’m not a genius, but I know that a few sips of water might wash my troubles into my stomach where they will dissolve in acid or feed my ulcer. Okay, so maybe this step is not such a good idea. Maybe instead of water I should pony-up for a new Jack-in-the-bottle. Or maybe I should just…
3. Stop, drop and roll. I’m not a fire fighter but I realize that if something is stuck in my craw it’s flammable. The faster I stop fanning the issue, the faster I will extinguish the flame. As a last resort, or possibly a first resort…
4. Thrust forward. I’m not an idiot, but I understand that I’ll be one if I allow myself to choke on anger.  So I’ll force myself to put the issue out there and deal with it before it (inevitably) takes my breath away.

I wish the phrase meant what I thought it meant—to have something stuck in your butt—because it would be so much easier to just flush and move on.

Promise #17: Check your baggage

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I love checking my baggage. I love watching it drift away on the conveyor belt. I love knowing it’s out of my hands. Really, I do.

It’s so easy to be me when it’s gone.

There’s nothing to drag, pull, push or steer. There’s no need to worry, wonder or think about the stuff stuffed inside. I can walk. I can run. I can take the steps or take a break without negotiating wheels and cumbersome weight.

And as if that’s not enough, here is the real beauty of it all: an empty overhead bin.

No tireless struggle. No junk up above. Just a pillow, blanket and (perhaps) peace.

That’s the promise of putting baggage where it belongs—in a place where it can’t possibly knock you out the minute you finally arrive.