If there are an infinite number of parallel universes with infinite versions of me, I can guarantee two things: not a single “parallel universe Tawn” would ever consider herself a morning person and each and every one of me hates surprises. I know this to be true because mornings and surprises are like anti-matter to my personality and enjoying either would cause me to spontaneously dematerialize into the ether in much the same way a vampire greets the rising sun.
Perhaps it’s the control freak in me that refuses to accept that any surprise could possibly be considered good or have a beneficial outcome. For instance, you may ask, “What about good surprises, like winning the lottery?” To which I would answer, “I bought a ticket specifically with the intention of winning, so why would I be surprised?”
I’m sure pilot training did nothing but compound my natural abhorrence of anything unplanned. Properly trained, a pilot is not surprised by 99 percent of any number of possibly catastrophic events from an engine failure on takeoff to an electrical fire in the cockpit because there’s a procedure and a checklist for it. And since we know it could happen and what to do if it does happen, it’s not a surprise. Believe me, when flying to Tahoe crammed into your $800-a-ticket-barely-big-enough-for-an-Oompa-Loompa seat nibbling on your $5-cash-only-please snack pack watching “Twilight” on the ceiling screen 5 rows ahead of you, the last thing you want is a flight crew surprised by the mountain goat standing on that cloud up ahead.
So, in conclusion, all surprises are hereby unwelcome in my life and will be summarily discharged and removed from my presence should one be so bold as to attempt to gain entry. And all I can legally say about the morning thing is I didn’t start it, but I’ll finish it.