It’s been over 36 hours since I sent my cheeky little text to PSM#2. Not that I’m counting, but if I was I’d have come to the conclusion that he’s just not that into me. Either that or he’s been staked out in front of his computer for the past three days, Googling his little heart in search of my blog; naturally he’ll have collapsed from exhaustion and lack of nutrients by now.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, I don’t really care. That’s because earlier this week, on way home from Miami, I realized something.
I love airports. I love airports so much that I enjoy spending three hours at the departures gate: sipping wine if it’s after noon or drinking coffee if it not, flipping through the best sellers in the bookshops and imagining the day when I’ll find my work amongst them, checking out the men in the sports bars, admiring my color-coordinated hand luggage whenever I catch my reflection in the windows…
Few people, however (including my brother) share these passions. And nor does my brother subscribe to my “better three hours early than three minutes late” mentality. As I blitzed through security and scanned the terminal for the nearest coffee shop, I suddenly recalled why I usually travel alone: whereas I had blitzed through security (despite my high heeled boots, my laptop and my layered outwear), my brother was still attempting to reclaim his property from the gray bins at the end of the x-ray.
He’d already knocked over one of the stanchions (you know: those little poles with the interlocking nylon cords that you’re supposed to go around and not under?) and was in the process of knocking over an old man’s suitcase.
I rolled my eyes and found myself thinking back to that George Clooney movie that came out a few years back. What was it called again? Airport? Airplane? Snakes on a Plane? In the Air? I can’t remember. The point it, Clooney’s character was the Zen master of airport security and aside from being 25, female, not a movie star and not short, I’m just like George Clooney:
My carryon toiletries are always of regulation size and packed in the requisite Ziploc bag in an outer compartment of my suitcase so that I don’t have to stand there holding up the line while I fumble around for my toothpaste. I hate those people— almost as much as I hate Midwesterners who get sunburned— and although high heeled boots might not be the most sensible choice for air travel, I can slip in and out of mine faster than most people can flash their boarding pass.
I’ve always thought that the epitome of marital bliss would be heading to the airport with my husband someday: to share in the responsibility of packing in-flight snacks, printing boarding passes and locating the departure gate. But traveling to and from Miami with my brother has forced me to reconsider.
I like flying solo.
I like leaving four hours early for a domestic flight. I like strolling through the terminal shops on my own. I like zipping through security without having to wait for those who haven’t mastered the art of flipping their toiletries into a bin with one hand while hauling their suitcase onto the conveyer belt with the other.
Maybe I’m not cut out for marital bliss (or, God forbid, children), at least not yet.