“If you can use some exotic booze… there’s a bar in far Bombay.
Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away.”
Show of hands, please.
Who’s not looking forward to their upcoming annual December encounter with the airport?
Sure, it’s gonna be great to see the faces of distant loved ones and family members again. But is it really worth the humiliation of standing in line for thirty minutes for the esteemed pleasure of showing off your current sock choice to complete strangers? Do you miss Grandma so much you’re willing to say nothing to the guy next to you in the track suit, chowing down on McDonalds straight out of the grease-stained sack as he screams into his phone at the divorce attorney who seems incapable of preventing “that vindictive bitch from taking it all!”
MG is much better at handling airport happenings than I am. He actually chit-chats with the people he finds sitting next to him at the gate. HE ACTUALLY PURPOSELY ENGAGES IN CONVERSATION WITH THESE PEOPLE! Apparently, he enjoys finding things out about them. Meanwhile, I’m sitting on the other side of him, slumped down, repeatedly muttering under my breath “Stop… talking to them” while debating whether or not to extend my leg and purposely trip the unattended child who’s running in circles with a drool-soaked Red Vine hanging out of its mouth.
I always walk into the airport with the best of intentions. But I always walk out with an upset stomach, a snarling lip, and for some reason the latest issue of Macworld, a magazine that holds absolutely no interest for me whatsoever.