Moral of this entry: Always believe in the Beard of Hope...and never ever carry a latte onto a convention floor.

I need to write this. Sit here and write this out in full. It's been weeks. Weeks of sitting on what happened. Thinking about it. Cringing over it. Even laughing sporadically like a loon because of it.

Why? Because nothing actually happened and at the same time something DID happen.

And then what happened afterward led to even more incredible happenings weeks later because that is how the universe likes to play itself out.

Does that make any sense?

No? Yes? Maybe?

Okay, let me explain.

"No, there is too much. Let me sum up. Buttercup is marrying Humperdinck in a little less than half an hour, so all we have to do is get in, break up the wedding, steal the Princess, and make our escape after I kill Count Rugen." – Inigo Montoya, The Princess Bride

Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.

Only reverse it and replace Princess Buttercup with Jason Momoa, scratch the wedding, and forget about a body count.

So this is what went down when I finally had the chance to meet the larger-than-life Hawaiian Rascal and tried not toss my cookies all over him.

The anxiety factor had been in fine form the night before which meant no sleep over the most asinine pebble thought that lodged itself in my brain. I stayed up most of the night because I was dead certain that I was going to do something horrible to mess the whole thing up and embarrass myself in front of people. Especially him.

Throw up on his feet? Break down sobbing like a hysterical nut job? Start screaming like a crazed fan-girl with zero chill and no self-control whatsoever? Pass out right then and there?

This was what was going over and over in my head for hours. Each time a thought crossed my mind it became bigger. From a speck of dust to Sisyphus' big-ass boulder.

And c'mon, who am I kidding? I'm a freaking professional here.

If I am going to fan-girl shriek at a pitch that would make small dogs howl in pain then I am going to do that in the privacy of my own home. Not in public thank you very much.

I know it makes no stupid sense. None. Realistically speaking, this encounter would be nothing, not a blip a bloop or a bleep, on the grand scale of human civilization as we know it. Also on my life because you know, personal journey to self-recovery yada yada yada. There are bigger trophies to achieve and levels to unlock in life. Meeting some tattooed behemoth with a man bun and beard isn't one of them.

So why sweat something so small and insignificant? Something that is practically non-existent to being with?

Because Godzilla brain demands to throw a hissy fit over something that doesn't actually exist. That is the truth behind anxiety boiled down in a single sentence.

So that was my sleepless night which led into a sleep deprived day. I forced myself to eat something or else there would be zero chance that I would make it through to the afternoon as a functioning human being. I had my outfits packed the day before and waiting at the door as if I was about to grab a pocket handkerchief and run off to join a troop of dwarves on the adventure of a lifetime.

Been there. Done that. Want to do it again.

But the day I meet Momoa was not that day. It would instead become the catalyst which would lead up to such a day but I am jumping the shark here.

I booked it out the door and hauled ass to make it to my hair appointment on time. With the summer weather mimicking the humid armpit of a swamp troll I had no choice but to ask my girl to do the 'do up right. My fro-hawk is fluffy enough for my snake to get lost in so I needed an expert to beat it into something utter than a cockatoos flared head-crest.

That was at 9:30 in the morning.

By noon my hair turned into a floofy poof of teased curls and epic frizz. I looked like a purebred French Poodle. A French Poodle in a snazzy pin-up dress and heels. Slap a rhinestone collar around my neck and I could have sashayed through the Westminster dog show and taken home Best In Show.

There was nothing to be done. The heat and humidity of the convention hall was impossible to deal with. The insane amount of hair spray and moulding wax my girl had used to style my hair was no match for it. I did not even bother to try to fix it.

I know a lost cause when I see one.

And so does Jason Momoa. Only he was kind enough not to comment on it. But I could tell by that split second look on his face that he was wondering what the hell happened before he dropped his gaze.

So poof on head, heels on feet, I attempted to navigate the north building of the massive convention as best I could. Which means that it was an utter fail because WHO WEARS HEELS TO A COMIC CONVENTION???

Never do this.

Unless you are cosplaying a character that requires you to stand in stilettos, never put yourself in this situation. Even if you are, always switch to flats the first chance you get because your spine will not be happy with you if you do not.

Me, I had no choice. I needed to make sure that I was tall enough for the shoot. That it wasn't just the poof that made it into the shot or that I only came up to that man's pecs. So heels it was until the picture was taken and I could run around barefoot.

Now this all happened on a Saturday. Anyone who has ever gone to a Con knows from brutal experience just how chaotic the Saturday of a Comic Con is. Doesn't matter which Con it is. They all have these things in common.

It smells. It's hot. You're always hungry. The food prices are outrageous. The nerd masses are quietly tripping out on their anxiety meds due to the mosh-pit like structure of the event. So many bodies packed between narrow lanes of venues and displays has everyone clutching their treasured finds in a sick sort of desperation. Personal space is non existent and everyone is triggered.

Now add enhanced boobage (thank you Victoria's Secret!), spiked-heeled booties, and a very flattering curve-hugging dress to the mix. Sure I was taller walking the con floor but that meant that my chest was in the direct line of fire for a number of accidental bumps via shoulders, backpacks, and in one instance some poor teenage boy's face.

I had bruises along my ribs by the end of the day. Totally worth it though.

What wasn't worth it is the decision I made to grab a therapeutic latte before I hit the floor.

Never. Ever. Latte. On. A. Con. Floor.

I should know this. But the psychotic squirrel that was running around in my head demanded caffeine and demanded that I have it now!

By the grace of the Bearded Wonder Bro my latte avoided the cleavage area and instead ended up all across some guy's back when he back-pedalled into me at full force. Miraculously the dress was spared. His Tony Stark Enterprises t-shirt was not.

Thankfully most of the caffeine was already in my system so the foamy cinnamon dusted almond muck was easy enough to scrape off.

This was when the greatest wing-woman in the world appeared out of the crowd like a pink-haired mystic unicorn of awesome and saved the damn day.

Enter Rainbow Sparkles.

Rainbow Sparkles, remember her? Epic friend and librarian co-worker? Kick-ass hair and a fandom t-shirt for every occasion ever? She's a massive con goer. She has that shit down to a science. So in her infinite wisdom she had the foresight to realize that I was going to need all the help I could get because I do not to well in crowds nor meeting mountainous bearded men who happen to take up the position of residential muse in my head.

She showed up like Moses parting the Pink Sea, grabbed hold of me, and hauled me out of that sticky situation.

I was too hyped on the bean juice to realize that I was starting to shake. This is why my doctors have banned me from having coffee...as if that is going to stop me. She found a corner by a row of garbage cans, stuck me in it, and went to find out what was holding up the line for photographs.

Poor planning on the Con's Event Coordinator's part meant that the afternoon photographs and their insanely massive lines were stalled. Big mistake.

Too many people, not enough space, massive fire code violations, plenty of yelling into microphones, nerds on the edge. It was utter chaos. But everyone was so packed in together trying to get to their proper line-ups that no one was moving. In any direction.

I could have tap danced across peoples heads and my feet would have never touched the ground once.

Wedged like a confused sardine in a can with other equally baffled fish I let Rainbow take the lead. It was like a scene from Aliens. I'm pulling a Hudson's "Game over man! Game over!" in my head while she's giving out the Ripley "Get away from her you bitch!" vibes. People gave us as much space as was possible as we wormed our way through more people than I have personally met in an entire year of working with the public.

It took some serious Tetris skills but eventually we made it to the front of the queue and staked a claim on a patch of cement until Momoa's line-up was called.

At this point I just wanted to turn around and wander off into the crowd. To hell with the insane amount of money I had paid for this photo-op. I had finally reached my "Done" level. Once that happens, it's pretty much over.

Yelling I can handle. I'm Italian. Shouting is what we call using our "indoor voices". The pushing and shoving is nothing new. I've cut my teeth and blackened my eyes in so many heavy metal mosh pits over the years that it's no longer a big deal.

But the energy coming off all those people bottlenecked like a herd of frightened cattle? It overloaded my internal warp core. The tiny internal Montgomery Scott that lives in my hearts of hearts was in Red Alert mode.

Scotty: She's giv'n all she's got captain, an' I canna make her give no more!

Entering dangerous territory here.

Now for my Rupert Giles librarian mystic magic moment of truth.

I can read energy like a plant absorbs sunlight. Empathic is what the shrinks call it. Comes with the territory of being a Reiki practitioner. Be it a person, a place, or even a imprinted memory in a location, I can pick up on it and figure it out. It make for one hell of a party trick, believe me.

But when there is that many bodies trapped in one location with that much heightened emotion flying all over the place all willy nilly and going unchecked, it feels like being battered from all sides without any source of relief. I also made the mistake of not grounding myself earlier so my shields were down and all of that was coming at me like a battalion of screaming TIE fighters.

Eeek!

Again thank the Bearded Wonder Bro for sending Rainbow to have my back. I owe her so freaking much. She has no idea how epic she is just by being her true self.

She's the one that kept me standing, moving, and placed in line as soon as it was possible. I just went through the motions while she navigated the course. Had she not been there I probably would have gone low and slunk off somewhere. But no. I was getting this picture done dammit and she was there to make it happen.

She had no idea that the two women behind me were there because one was going through what felt like a nasty divorce and meeting Momoa was her best friend's way of helping her stick it to her ex-husband. Or that the backpack sporting comic collector to my left had always wished to meet one of the actresses and could not believe that it was finally about to happen. He felt like a live wire sparking in a puddle.

Rainbow kept asking me questions, getting me to focus on the here and now as the caffeine high was reaching epic proportions. Racing heart, shallow breathing, spinning head, and sweat all down the cleavage area that had nothing to do with the heat.

I was going to pass out like some idiot even before we made it to photoshoot. System overload. Too much energy and no output. Short-circuiting the nervous system in ten...nine...eight...seven...six...

Wait. No. Not pass out.

Shit.

Shit shit.

Shit shit shit and merde.

I wanted to throw up.

I was going to throw up.

The night spent stupidly freaking out over throwing up on Momoa's feet was going to come true.

I was going to throw up on that poor man and there was no stopping it. 

Oh, ma vaffanculo!