Seven months.

Seven months ago I met the love of my life for the very first time. Physically that is. We had a long standing relationship for 38 weeks and two days prior to that. Ironically, I’ve been living this day for longer than the standard 24 hours too, since I started it 14 hours earlier in Australia.

On my first flight here I watched, perched comfortably in my first class seat as everyone shuffled to the back of the plane. Two babies. Around the age my Kam would have been, being worn by their exhausted mothers, who ironically looked at me like I was the lucky one. Little do they know, I would have given up my seat to them in a second. I would’ve given anything if it meant that I could be wearing my Kam and settling in for 15 hours in an all too small coach seat.

Even now, while I’m waiting in the United Red Carpet Lounge for my final flight home to Tampa, catching up on all the celebrity gossip via TMZ Live, I wish I was sitting in the family room on the other side of this TV lounge. I wish I still had a reason too. I hope that sometime in the next few years I will again.

Hope. That’s what I have now. In place of my 7 month old, and in addition to my anti-deppressants. Hope is good though. It keeps me pushing towards the next day.

Hope is also what I’m relying on right now.

Hope that they’ll stop delaying my final flight so I can get home to my bed and my Lola.

So is life.

Especially mine.