Down and Out

Hemingway had a thing for Spain. I have a thing for airports.*

In fact, nothing depresses me more.

As a single woman, I think nothing of crossing out the word "guest" in the same stroke that I check "Chicken Cordon Bleu" on RSVPs to wedding invitations. I have no issue with attending movies, parties (even my own), dinners, or sunset networking events on yachts solo. I excel at being the third wheel, fifth wheel, and as of late the seventh wheel.

Showing up by myself whether it's to the Sistine Chapel or a Scorsese film, in fact, has become one of my signature traits, right along with wearing black and Thierry Mugler. And really, the thought of sharing my space with someone, the weight of someone else next to me on the sofa, and someone else's coffee cup in my sink, feel a bit stifling to me. I'm a girl who historically has always needed room...space...simultaneous residence in various states.

Turns out, I am singularly good at being, well, single.

HOWEVER whenever I land at an airport I feel acutely and particularly single, as in alone. The independence and free spiritedness I usually revel in seem to morph into some kind of affliction I've been in denial about, like a dull ache for which I've been putting off seeing the doctor.

It seems to me that everyone--even fiercely independent types who have deftly adapted to a couple friendly world**--should have someone waiting for her--and the cab driver whom I am about to fork over $65 to doesn't count--on the far end of any 35,000 foot descent. I mean, what if I didn't make it? There are, after all, risks involved...statistics at work. And while I know that I am many times more likely to die driving 45 mph down the street in an SUV with turbo airbags to see The Departed, such a demise would not be nearly as dramatic as disappearing over the Atlantic.

There is first and foremost the issue of timely notification. Who--I ask you--among people who may (or may not) care would even know if I went the way of Amelia Earhart if I'm traveling stag? Even my dogs whom the neighbor fed for the last time that morning as agreed upon due to my anticipated return wouldn't know know. They'd just be hungry.

Now some pragmatic types might be saying to themselves right now "Well,pick up your cell phone, woman, and call someone if you're going down. Duh." And to these pragmatic types I might reply: there is one person I'm calling if I'm taking a nosedive into the Atlantic, and I'm pretty sure He doesn't subscribe to T Mobile.

I just think I would feel better dying on a plane if I knew someone would notice that I wasn't at carousal B at the specified time. The only thing sadder than no one noticing I wasn't at carousal B at the specified time would be no one noticing that I was expired on the kitchen floor of my apartment with my 8 cats eating my fingernails. This is perhaps--come to think of it-- why I have always refused to own a cat.*** We all know taking in one stray kitten is a slippery slope: feed Fluffy once and five years later, you're her--the cat lady who knits alone on Saturday nights while the whole kit-n-caboodle sleeps in her bun. And a few years after that, you're indistinguishable from catnip.

And these issues of timely notification and cats and such are just the beginning of why airports depress me. If I do in fact land safely and there is no one to witness this, things only go down hill from there anyway. First, there is the little ping of self-pity I feel when I see that even strangers are welcomed by other strangers no less! with nicely crafted bi-lingual signs directing them to the hospitality of this hotel or the care and guidance of that tour group.

Second, there is the line of expectant lovers and those just reunited in human knots of public displays of affection, which fills me with the kind of dread reminiscent of how I felt as a five year old engaged in a particularly competitive game of Red Rover on the playground--except that if I fail to break through this line, no one is going to ask me to join the group hug.

Finally, there is the inevitable humiliation of retrieving checked luggage alone.
It plays out the same every time. I lodge my one permissible carry-on bag, as well as my one permissible personal item (which is really my big purse stuffed with my other not permissible carry-on bag) on the floor between my feet and wait until I spot my luggage on the belt. When I finally see my checked suitcase (which weighs in at a oh-you-are-so-not-charging-me-extra 49.9 lbs) coming towards me the real dilemma starts.

As a fairly compliant air passenger and a former New Yorker in a post 9/11 world, I know two things:

1. If I see something, I'm supposed to say something.
2. I am not to leave my belongings unattended for even a minute at the airport.

Combine these golden rules with the fact that I am someone who has disproportionately long arms, and you'll believe that I really do make an earnest effort every time to bend at the hips and reeeeeeeeaaaaach for my suitcase while keeping my belongings securely close to me. And every time I miss. I am then forced to resume an upright posture, take a quick glance to see if perhaps a strong James Bond or Johnny Depp look-alike noticed my struggle (no) and wait for the next round.

It is usually not until round three or four when I have been dragged half way around the carousal by the sheer momentum of my suitcase that a 50-year-old Midwesterner who is neither a James Bond nor a Johnny Depp look-alike finally springs into action (as though he hadn't been watching with some amusement all along), and says "Let me help you with this, Ma'am." Oh, sure, now you're seeing something and saying something.****

*This is where any and all comparisons between Hemingway and myself should stop.

**Two for one dinner specials, double banana split sundaes, bags of pre-washed organic spinach that serve two, the tango, etc.

***I have three dogs; I've nursed birds with missing wings; I've collected dead bees and halves of butterflies, but alas I have never detected a soft spot for cats.

**** "Ma'am!" Don't even get me started on this one. Being called "Ma'am" depresses me only slightly less than arriving at the airport alone.

(In my last post I mentioned that I would be addressing big purses and vanity sizing in my next. Well, apparently, I've already done this, so for those of you who were really looking forward to commiserating with me over the inherent evil of vanity-size distortion, please refer to the Wednesday, January 7, 2009 post. I'm obviously still not over it, so I don't expect you to be).

handbags are the new horoscopes

As of late it has been brought to my attention by old friends, new friends, acquaintances, and the guy bagging my groceries that my purse is inordinately or at least relatively large.

So, on my way back to Ohio last weekend (Why? Why?), as I sat in the Atlanta airport reading fluff to pass the time during my two hour layover,* an article called “The Contents of Your Purse and What It Reveals About You” caught my eye.

Yeah, I went for it.

There was…

1. The usual arsenal: lip gloss, lip balm, lipstick, lip liner. This would suggest that I spend an inordinate amount of time on my mouth, but this hypothesis in order to be true, would require that I actually use any of these items.

Accuracy rating= dubious

2. Gum. Lots of gum. This would suggest that I am an unrepentant gum chewer. I have in fact been called “non-compliant” by a British abs class sergeant (go ahead say “non-compliant” in your best British accent for the full effect—you know you want to) on more than one occasion.

I’ve also had to, on more than one occasion, swallow my gum whole when the principal popped in unannounced to observe my teaching. In my defense, it has been scientifically proven that chewing a piece of gum lowers the production of stress hormones by at least 15%, so I made the very logical leap that if I chew at least 7 pieces of gum at a time...whatever, you try explaining ONE MORE TIME to 30 17- year-olds the difference between lie and lay without a little help.

Accuracy rating=right on and proud of it


3. Fistful of bobby pins in various colors and sizes. This would suggest…what? What exactly would this suggest? Some people leave paper trails. Some people leave fingerprints. I leave bobby pins.

Accuracy rating=undetermined

4. 1.5 liter bottle of water, which cost me $5.69 at the imposter Starbucks in terminal D (we all know that’s Folgers in those ‘air pots.’) This would suggest that I am 1) thirsty 2) a thirsty fool who is willing to pay $5.69 to quench a God-given need 3) an unwitting victim of discriminatory TSA regulations (see No. 7).

Accuracy rating= guilty, guilty, and guilty

5. Large calculator. On first glance this would suggest that I am a number person. But then again, number people (strange breed that they are) don’t need a calculator.

Accuracy rating=zero

6. Umbrella. This would suggest that I am an over-prepared person --perhaps a type A personality or a former Girl Scout—or Mary Poppins.

Accuracy rating=nil. I’m on my way to Ohio.

7. A so not stolen 5 oz. bottle of body lotion from the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami that has gone through airport x-ray NOT in a clear plastic bag at least four times undetected, which suggests one of two things, neither of which are about me: 1. God really wanted me to have the body lotion and 2. Despite the delays, rules, and hassles, the TSA still doesn't really know what it is doing.

Accuracy rating=two stars

8. A hard-boiled egg and Greek yogurt. This would suggest I just returned from a lovely two month sojourn on a farm in Mykonos.

Accuracy=false (protein, people—we all need to eat more protein)

9. Ibuprofen. This could suggest a myriad of things, including the possibility that I was suffering from back pain due to the third illicit carry-on bag I was lugging through the airport because I refuse—let me say that again—REFUSE to pay $65 to GOODNESS FORBID travel with any belongings (see No. 11 and then refer to No.7 part two again).

Accuracy=seemingly true, but the real reason is that 'tis the season when my students begin their grade "negotiations" with me via emails**

10. Ticket stub to a movie whose identity shall not be revealed due to my day job and need for some semblance of professional dignity. This would suggest I went to a movie whose identity shall (still) not be revealed due to my day job and need for some semblance of professional dignity (for what it’s worth, though, I swear I read all of the books first)

Accuracy=the fifth

11. Carry-on bag. Yes, in my purse. This would suggest that my purse is big. Very big.

Accuracy= we’ve covered this. My purse is very big. So what.

*direct flights are typically number three on my list of non-negotiables right behind pedicures and good coffee, so having one on Friday in conjunction with the faux SB Breakfast Blend clearly testifies that I’m batting way below average as of late.

** Dear Student Who Is Trying to Convince Me to Change Grade,

If I don’t know who you are when you write to me pleading to not fail you even though you never came to my class, well, you are already at a distinct and dare I say insurmountable disadvantage.

If you send me an email from your touch phone that looks anything like this: C’mon, Proff. Puleeez. i realy need u 2 give me a bee not a see + Puleeeeeeeez, well, thnx 4 xpressing ur concern 4 ur academic future but idfreakingtsntj.

And, if neither of these scenarios applies to you then please recall that final grades are subject to a simple premise that almost anyone can understand: they are final.

Next up: Big Bags and Shrinking Jeans