Airport Scribbles

Sitting for an ungoddessly amount of time (last Wednesday) in the DFW airport, to amuse myself, I:

• Pretended to be doing the yoga sun salute in my head. Breathed deeply and imagined the poses flowing, tree through downward facing dog through cobra and back again. It actually made me feel almost as relaxed as if I had really done it.
  
• Stretched my calves and wiggled my neck back and forth on the plastic airport seat and caught cute college guy staring at me.
  
• Sat & contemplated why other passengers were at the airport. Business. Business. Visting grandkids. College break.
  
• Played surreptiously with my bellybutton. I really like my bellybutton. But then, because I felt sort of naughty with my bellybutton-y antics, I started to imagine the other passengers differently.
  

WHAT IF

The guy in the 6:30 pm (CST) dappled sunlight, with his Ollie North haircut and green and blue leaf pattern golf shirt and white tennis shoes-- maybe he secretly likes to watch ladies' volleyball while wearing his very own pink spandex bikini with push up bra top, complete with those little gel falsies in the top. Maybe, he's even thinking about it. RIGHT. NOW.

The skinny college kid I caught earlier looking at me, with long hair parted in the middle, unabashedly chomping on a huge bag of those cone shaped Doritos, inhaling them one by one into his mouth with all the pleasure of an oral fixation junkie on a major bender. Maybe he, every weekend, likes to clean his shower with lavender scented products until the white grout would make that drill sergeant guy in Full Metal Jacket (you know, the one that made Private Pyle go ape shit "I am in a world of shit" crazy?)-- made him say "Damn boy-ah, that IS clean. (Okay, so that one isn't as interesting, but stick with me.)

And the grandmotherly lady in the half reading glasses, speaking into her cell phone and then abandoning the conversation for a book with a floral pattern on the front, probably one of those romances with the plucky Irish girl who, after her husband leaves her, beats the odds and opens her own baked-goods catering business, only to find true-love with her partner. Maybe that sedate, Irish-romance reading old lady, after chuckling over her cell phone while she wiggles her French manicured toes in her cute black snake-skin sandals---- Maybe she secretly logs onto p@rn message boards, after creating a persona of a 300 pound man (maybe his name is Tiny-- oooo the irony) and maybe her secret guy persona likes to eat Twinkie after Twinkie (deep fried) while being spanked by biker chicks.

Maybe. It could happen.

---

Well. That little exercise killed 20 minutes of airport time. But then I felt guilty cause college guy was on the same plane as me and was smiling when I told this joke to the old guy in the seat next to me (about how Dollie Parton once said she didn't mind dumb blonde jokes cause she wasn't dumb or blonde). The old guy was a low-talker who told me all about how back in the old days "the colored folk" had to sit in the back. He said-- (the old guy not college-cutie) "I'm sure you don't remember those days" making me uncomfortable and afraid sweet little old man was going to turn into crazy racist old man (He didn't really. But there were a few minutes I was worried there).

So. Anyway. I scribbled most of this stuff into my handy dandy little spiral notebook, and then we had a little excitement when we discovered A BAG that had been sitting unattended for a LONG TIME and security had to come pick it up. They stood there looking at it without touching it (it was about the size of a shaving gear bag) and then I told them that the lady over next to me had moved it recently. So it wasn't going to blow up if they touched it. So they picked it up and took it away.

Maybe I shouldn't have said anything-- they might have brought out the dogs to sniff it suspiciously. That would have been even more entertaining.

See. I'm always thinking of you guys.