ADHD-and-me.blog

Now I want to be very clear about something before I begin: I think I’m generally a nice person. I believe that given a good breakfast and a wind in the right direction, I can be a reasonable woman. A consummate professional. I have proof. I have never complained about the company coffee choice. Like I said, I’m a professional.

Because of my ADHD, I constantly need to work hard on impulse control and social cues. I need you to understand this point because, by the end of this story, I will have sighed loudly and rolled my eyes at a total stranger, called him “rude”, and then asked him for a selfie. In short, I will have made myself look like a total muppet.

Back to my story. I was on a business trip to Warsaw with my lovely Polish colleague Sylvia. We chatted and laughed our way through security like the seasoned travellers we both were and arrived at the gate in good time. We got on the plane and found our seats. Probably joking about how dumb other people are in airports. Ironically.

Having set the international-jet-setter chip in my brain to on, I carefully arranged all my executive travel gismos in the seat pocket in front of me. Placed my hand luggage under my seat and fastened my seatbelt. Then, feeling more than a little smug that I had fully complied with the rules of international aviation (I had of course extinguished my cigarette by this point), I closed my eyes and prepared to zone out.

A minute later I became aware that someone was trying to get my attention. What now? Can’t they see I’m zoning? Obviously not. I cautiously opened one eye.

A man was standing in the aisle beside me and indicating, I should say, extremely politely, that I was in his seat. I sighed. And not a subtle sigh. The kind of sigh which served as a clear indication to the polite man that asking me to move would be a massive and unnecessary inconvenience. A loud sigh accompanied by a 360-degree eye roll which rippled down the plane like a Mexican Wave.

The cabin crew put doors to manual (and cross checked). The pressure was mounting. The polite man was obviously in the wrong, but did he really want to be the guy that delayed the flight? It was obvious to me that cool heads must prevail. One of us needed to be the grown up here, and it would have to be me. So, with a hard stare worthy of Paddington Bear himself and a Miss Piggy hair toss for good measure, I grabbed my stuff and sashayed into the row behind.

The polite man sat down in his seat and promptly went to sleep. I continued grumbling to my colleague about his “rudeness” in the way that only a person who is absolutely 100% certain they are in the right can grumble.

Seat thief.
Aisle hoverer.
Can’t even count to 4A.

Honestly, some people.

We landed in Warsaw. People began filing off the plane. The polite man stood up. He was tall. Very tall. Extraordinarily tall in fact. Tall in a way that suddenly made the aircraft cabin feel small and claustrophobic. As the disembarking continued, I was struck by a general atmosphere of hovering and reverence around me. Cabin crew and ground staff were whispering excitedly. People were trying very hard not to stare while absolutely staring.

My curiosity was piqued. I turned to the nearest member of cabin crew:

“Who’s that bloke?” I asked casually, like Del Boy just before he falls through the bar.
“It’s Usain Bolt” she whispered excitedly.

OMG Nooooooo!!
I had rolled my eyes at Usain Bolt?
I had sighed at the fastest human being ever recorded?
I had given my best Miss Piggy impression to the man with eight Olympic gold medals?

And worst of all, I had called him rude. There are no words to describe the total and utter mortification I was feeling at that moment. I wanted to run away and yes, I do realise how ridiculous that sounds in the context.

For the record, Mr Bolt was not rude at all. He was in fact charming and gracious and entirely unbothered by me and my First World Problems. Which somehow made it all so much worse. My colleague, sensing my embarrassment, decided I should ask for a quick selfie as we passed him in the baggage hall. “Go on, he seems really nice” she encouraged whilst at the same time deliberately pushing me into the path of his incoming luggage trolley. My hands were trembling as Usain Bolt took my phone with the confident air of a man used to taking selfies with people at least 6 feet shorter than him. Et voilà! The selfie moment was immortalised forever. Whilst he was bent down to my height, I whispered a sincere apology for seat-gate into his ear, to which he replied, “hey no problem”. He then bade us a cheerful farewell and headed to his waiting car. A spring in his very large step. What a guy.

I breathed a sigh of relief. My dignity could return. I’d never have to see him again.

Ten minutes later, we meet Usain checking into our hotel.

However by then we were old friends. He gave us a finger wave as he headed off to the lift. No doubt to the executive floor, where the ceilings were higher and the beds were longer.

The next day, my colleague and I sprinted through Warsaw Chopin Airport and successfully made our flight home. Except that version of the story does not exist. It is purely a blatant tactic to weave the word “sprint” into the narrative. This version exists: the one where the gate agent shrugged, and we stood there with our luggage, 20 seconds late.

Usain would have made it. Obviously.