The Happily Married Woman Boards the Plane
Please don’t be witty as hell sitting in the window seat on a six hour flight with a two hour delay on the tarmac, and don’t tell stories that make me snort and say “oh you’re cute when” without being condescending, and don’t look even remotely like Viggo Mortensen or Christian Bale in the Dark Knight but not American Psycho, ‘cause that’s creepy. Although I’d prefer creepy on this flight over spending twenty minutes of shushing, tearing up laughter quoting The Holy Grail and LOTR, precious, and seriously, if you know what LOTR stands for and you say Samwise Gamgee is your favorite character, I’ll ask to change seats. Please be dumb as a bag of hammers. Please don’t order Maker’s Mark and ask if I’d care for one, too, and then toast to new friends and clink the little bottles and say “clink” and wink at me. Please be wearing sandals and have cracked, yellow toenails, or at the very least please be wearing tennis shoes without socks, or boat shoes without socks. ‘Cause then I won’t feel like I’m missing something when I pop my earbuds in and start to read the opening to The Gunslinger, again. And if I do, don’t be polite and let me read and when I get up to use the restroom and come back say, “‘The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.’ Best line in literature.” Or if you do, at least have the courtesy to have obviously profuse body hair, like eyebrows an inch long, visible curly ear hair, back hair flowing across the collar of your Yo Gabba Gabba! t-shirt. At the very least, have a fit when the stewardess forgets your second bourbon. Don’t you dare say, “It’s ok sugar. Would you bring two, pretty please? We’re celebrating the discovery of distillation,” and then start a conversation on the philosophy behind the end of the Dark Tower series, ancient alien theory, or Rushdie’s take on hybridity. And god, if you do, throw me a line and, for no apparent reason, say you hate cats, hate your roommates, hate your wife. Or, just say you love your wife and be done with it. Because no matter what the love songs say, I know in six or fifteen years, you’d leave your running shoes on the table one more time, your wet towel on the floor; you’d drink the last Diet Coke, eat the very last piece of sourdough bread, and leave me the heel.