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).

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day sixteen

So last night I decided to write on the back porch because, well...on a good night, this is what writers do.

I was lost (as is usually the very unfortunate case)somewhere in the quagmire of Chapter 2 when I heard a branch break in the miniature everglade that is my back yard. Heh, a bird, I thought. It's just a bird. It's just a very fat bird. A very fat bird who landed on a very thin branch. I put my head down again, feeling rather proud for ignoring the distraction that would so obviously entice lesser writers (such as myself on any one of the other 364 days of the year) to stop writing in order to investigate.*

And then the rustling started.

Heh, I thought. It's probably a turtle. Yes, it's probably just a turtle. Or maybe a large frog. But then I wondered, do turtles rustle? Do turtles or frogs--even large ones--really rustle in the proper sense of the word? I put pen to paper again, but this time admittedly I was pondering the anatomy of frogs and turtles in attempt to determine whether rustling could be considered one of their feasible modi operandi.

And then...and then--I kid you not--the rustling turned into the sound of very distinct foot falls. Now, frogs have legs--we all know this--and presumably they have feet. But frogs jump. They do not walk. Hence "foot falls" can safely be eliminated. And turtles have feet of some sort, too--no one would deny this. But turtles' normal pace, it was clear to me in this moment, would also in fact impede them from making the distinct sound of foot falls.

As only a former Indian Princess and New Yorker** could do, I took a quick inventory of the remaining possibilities and none boded well: alligator, crocodile, panther, or serial killer.

I sat there frozen trying to match the sound of the very distinct foot falls with the possible predator for a good 10 minutes and then--I'm not proud to say--realized I'm her. I'm the girl who sits frozen on the back porch for a good 10 minutes playing Name That Predator while that predator lurks nearby waiting not to welcome me to the neighborhood with some lovely gift (say, perhaps a pie or a box of Girl Scout Cookies) but to POUNCE AND SHRED ME TO PIECES.

So, yeah...one minute I'm Earnest Hemingway and the next I'm the get-up-and-run!-run!-you-dumb-dumb-girl! in scary movies who sits frozen when she should be hightailing it out of there. Had I been shredded to pieces I would have fully deserved it.***

*investigation is only one of a thousand perfectly legitimate alternatives writers turn toward to in order to avoid writing. Others to which I can personally attest include day-tripping to discounted vitamin outlets, french braiding my shoelaces, and googling my middle-school boyfriends.

**Both Indian Princesses (that's Princess Raindrop to whomever is asking and yes, we were waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay cooler than the Brownies (minus the cookie thing)) and New Yorkers are very skilled in, as Chief Thundercloud and Rudy Giuliani used to like to say, "Situational Awareness."

"Situational Awareness" exponentially reduces your chances of being eaten by a black bear should one sneak up on you while you are sleeping in a tent in one of your fellow Indian Princesses' backyards. It also exponentially reduces your chances in NYC of being kidnapped, robbed, or mowed down by a kidnapper, robber or tipsy hipster on a retro-cool Huffy--respectively.

***It is true that I survived last night's potential attack, but let me assure you that contrary to the popular notion that Naples is a tame, laid back place, other southwestern Florida perils exist.

The ones to which I can also personally attest include covert sprinkler systems with haphazard "OH LOOK I'M NAILING YOU NOW, LADY, REGARDLESS OF THE HOUR YOU JUST SPENT GETTING READY FOR YOUR DINNER DATE WHICH HAHHAHAHHAHHAHA YOU WILL NOW BE LATE FOR" timing, traffic cops with such a fierce propensity for issuing a ticket for something! anything! they make Cleveland feel like the autobahn, and large beetles that apparently have a thing for tallish blonds with long arms.