I’ve been fortunate enough to have good luck with flights my entire life. Prior to the age of 21, I don’t ever remember being forced to endure so much as a weather delay. Since then, as I’ve grown more rushed and more drunk, the slight delays I’ve incurred were all met with appreciative, relaxing trips to the airport bar – the only acceptable place to drink Bloody Mary’s outside of Sunday brunch.

It was a good 27 year run, but two weeks ago all the bad karma I’d been storing up (I steal wireless internet) finally caught up with me. My girlfriend and I were prepared to run off on a spur-of-the-moment romantic getaway to North Carolina. We saw weather reports that indicated a possibility of rain, but it had said that all week long. Besides, if I believed everything I saw on the news I wouldn’t eat hamburgers in restaurants or buy illegal prescription drugs over the internet. Where’s the fun in that?

So we dragged our suitcases to work, worked like crazy to get everything done in order to leave at 4:00, and kept one eye on the weather out the window. It was overcast, but not a drop of rain. We were hopeful. Until our final log-in at U.S. Airway’s website to check the status of our flight where, out of nowhere, we saw that one dreaded word: CANCELED.