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).

Dear Prince William: Big, big mistake. Huge.

A few weeks ago I stated that I wanted to date Prince William for the summer, thus inheriting The Best. Summer. Gig. Ever., for which I would get to wear a tiara, attend cricket and other strange English sporting events, as well as drink tea, pinkie out, every afternoon.

Well, it was most disappointingly brought to my attention this morning while standing in the checkout line at The Tiara Unlimited that Billy boy has gone and proposed to whatshername. This news, of course, was unnerving--namely because great now I suddenly would have no excuse to offer nonplussed neighbors and friends for my recent odd behavior. And, and! I was getting reeeeeeeeeeeally good at being a princess.

First of all, I've got the princess wave down (fingers together, slight rotation only at the wrist). Some of my neighbors have even begun waving back as I drive down the street waving out my rolled down windows (which were tinted last week as a preemptive gesture).

Second, Larry, the gate guard at the entrance to my "planned community" (as there doesn't appear to be any other kind here) has started curtsying after I say "Much appreciated, Jasper" in my now nearly native--and obviously convincing--sounding Queen's English accent.

Third, my new friends, who have been serving as royal body guards and security (admittedly unpaid and unbeknown to them) like me because I'm always up for going to a sports bar to feed my almost maniacal obsession with the World Cup. In one of those ironic twists my life is oh so prone to, it seems as though in practicing to be England's next princess, I've become one of the American guys.

Fourth, I've perfected the unemployment/leisure thing. I've taken to wearing gowns to the beach and I've been practicing my inevitable royal maritime etiquette by racking up as many hours as possible on the yachts of other people who have the unemployment/leisure thing down perfectly, and who also take to wearing gowns to the beach.

And then of course there was the little tea fiasco.

Yes, people, in a bold, bold move, I replaced my daily afternoon appointment at SB* with tea, pinkie out, at home on the linai.**

At first I was quite reluctant and actually somewhat angry over the prospect of giving up one half of my favorite addiction for subjects who weren't even loyal yet. But, I took a deep breath and in the name of foreign diplomacy headed to the Tea Emporium for what was supposed to be a quick trip for some English freaking Breakfast and whatever...raspberry scones.

Little did I know that this little jaunt would turn into a fascinating 90 minute research expedition and literary extravaganza: seriously, the writers at The New Yorker have nothing on those anonymous scribes who specialize in tea literature. Tea boxes, it turns out, provide an abundance of information that rivals both Shakespeare and Dr. Phil in the genres of wisdom, self-help, and love.

So now that Billy boy has made the Biggest. Mistake. Of. His. Life. by not officially offering me The. Best. Summer. Gig. Ever., I've decided that I want to date a man who espouses the same qualities as my Earl Grey and White Blossom Passion Fruit.

I mean, really, who wouldn't want someone who is "robust" or "full of character yet peaceful and serene?"

And who wouldn't be happy to go to dinner with someone of a "noble blend" or with the "the perfect marriage of sweet and spice?"***

I'm all for a man--royalty or not--who is "surprisingly potent and offering an ample dose of inspiration" or a man who is "bold in both depth and character." And for the record, I'm totally fine with a man who is "scented with bergamot from Italy."

"A well-rounded infusion with refined lingering notes" whatever that means exactly sounds good to me, as does a man who offers "sweet contemplation from dawn til dusk." Asking sweet contemplation of what, seems--at this point--beside the point.

*SB's CEO was understandably alarmed by the dip in profit as of late before I explained to him the whole prospective Best. Summer. Gig. Ever. thing. (soooo not looking forward to the certain groveling that awaits me tomorrow afternoon at 4).

**translates roughly to the American "screened-in porch"

***Boys, I'm informing you that, on the upside, soon potential girlfriends will no longer be comparing you to that Noah guy in The Notebook (yay!) or Johnny Depp just in general (whatever, you have Megan Fox, we have JD) in terms of a set of standards they want you to live up to. However, this means that, on the downside, you will soon be competing with tea leaves and other herbal infusions.