Wednesday, July 3, 2013

fun and games at the airport

I am sitting in the San Diego airport. Across from me is a large woman eating a meatball sandwich the size of a football and eavesdropping on my phone conversation. She corrected me loudly when I told Husband what I thought was our new departure time and she went on to recite the weather report for our destination city.  I was still on the phone so I had the luxury of turning away from this person and when I returned to the scene I hear her telling someone, "this is probably way too much information to be telling a complete stranger but my mom got custody of my cousin because he never came out of the basement."  There is an ankle to knee brace on her right leg and I am convinced it's a prop, a conversation springboard, a bid for sympathy so she can just keep talking. She's from New Jersey.

"My aunt keeps camels her in her back yard and she's studying to be a taxidermist." I don't know if there's a connection between those two thoughts. She has now cornered this quaint little Indian couple and the husband speaks English. His wife is decked out in swaddling violet spangled silks and she's nodding her head much too eagerly. She obviously understands nothing, but New Jersey keeps talking.

"So my step brother got married in Las Vegas in a public restroom because that's where they met because she was so drunk she hooked up in the wrong bathroom . . ." and now she's talking to a Justin Bieber wannabe who is straddling the seat next to her all white ankle socks and backwards cap. His mom has the same haircut and when he leans his head on her shoulder the intensity of all that fake blondness is annoying.

I take myself back to the plane's bathroom and I mistimed my visit, the movie has just ended and we all need to pee. There are four of us jammed into the back section and a large Hispanic woman in a red velour jumpsuit is looking pale and I try to sit her down on the folding seat. The flight attendant appears and screams, "SHE CAN'T SIT THERE!" and I attempt to prop her back up. The attendant grabs the woman's arm and Senora screams, "DON'T TOUCH ME! I AM SENSITIVE TO PEOPLE TOUCHING ME! DON'T TOUCH ME!" although I just did.  The flight attendant is trying to ram her way out of this people-packed space and there are beads of sweat on her upper lip and she says, "I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE! I'M CLAUSTROPHOBIC!"  So I am caught between a raging Mexican woman and a hyperventilating stewardess clearly in the throes of an anxiety attack. And I'm wondering why a claustrophobic person would choose a career where she spends the majority of her working hours in a space the size of a closet.
 Just wanna go to the bathroom . . .

1 comment:

Arizaphale said...

Oh God. You've reminded me of air travel and I am 'looking forward' to a 24 hours flight to the UK at Christmas.