The Cosmic Comedy of Adulthood: Hotels and Wheelchairs

I've come to a realization through trial, error, and the grand comedic drama of adulthood. I once believed being grown-up meant grasping life's secrets, tucked away in some mythical glove compartment. Turns out, we’re all just stumbling along, navigating the twists and turns of daily life. This revelation brings me to a sitcom-worthy tale, involving hotel rooms and wheelchairs, both missing their marks spectacularly.

Imagine arriving at a hotel after a long journey across the plains or the dusty South. You hope for a room that fits your needs, only to find it’s as helpful as a teenager with a mullet reading the specials at a local diner. Eileen Schoch, bless her heart, found herself in this predicament when her supposedly accessible room was anything but. Now, Eileen has more patience than I do when a raccoon sneaks into my corncrib, but sponge baths and a cot tested even her limits.

Isn't it curious how hotels, with their grand lobbies and vast breakfast buffets lacking real fruit (what's with all the apples?), often miss the mark on accessibility? It's like when the church’s Lefse-making club unexpectedly bakes blondies. Leaves you scratching your head, doesn’t it?

We could point fingers at regulations or lament the system, even propose a “law of adulthood” that for every plan, there’s a backup ready to fail. But instead, let’s reflect on accessibility, or the lack of it.

Wheelchair users, like my cousin Ed (proud owner of three goats and staunch opponent of pineapple at church potlucks), often describe travel as an obstacle course. Beds that feel like boulders, gadgets out of reach, and showers seemingly designed by mischievous cats, all in the name of luxury. But as Emily Merkel wisely noted, “luxury” means little if it feels like scaling Everest just to get some rest.

It’s akin to organizing the annual church picnic and forgetting the mustard, a tangled mess of unmet expectations. These unforeseen hurdles remind us that simplicity often gets overlooked.

Now, for a little sidestep: One summer, Pastor Johnson decided the church picnic needed a petting zoo. Great idea until the goats (not Ed's) escaped during grace, chewing through the potato salad. It was chaotic, yes, but the laughter that ensued bound us in ways no predefined plan could. (Apologies for my tangent.)

Ultimately, much like a church service running long due to Aunt Martha’s detailed pie analysis, we hold on to hope while preparing for the chaos we’ve come to expect. It's a mix of mayhem and more patience than any of us imagined. Hotels might want to take a cue from our community hymnals and adjust their approach to welcome everyone.

So here we sit, gathered on our community porch, where it’s evident: we're all still learning, striving each day to treat each other with kindness. Perhaps, just maybe, we’ll be pleasantly surprised by the practical power of goodwill, a quiet note in our ever-evolving story of shared spaces.

And as Scott would remind us (unnecessarily, but indulge me), a genuine apology and perhaps a fresh blanket can make all the difference. Let’s sip our lemonade, watch the sun sink over the fields, and keep smiling at life’s hurdles and heartwarming missteps. After all, that’s how this cosmic joke makes a bit of sense.

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