I don’t know what it is about airports that makes me romantically optimistic, but I’d kind of like to sit that part of me down and have a long one-on-one.
Maybe it’s the excitement of new destinations, maybe it’s all the exotic dried fruit kiosks, but somehow I’ve managed to draw the baseless conclusion that airports are the Magic Kingdom of romance.
Today the guy in front of me with a huge beer gut turned around and asked me, “If they make me take off my belt, will you hold up my pants?”
And yet somehow, I still believe.
I smirk in the security line, believing deep down that the hot guy behind will watch in awe as I pull two Ziploc bags from my purse, disrobe my laptop, and remove 6 bangle bracelets, all before you can say “terrorist.”
He’ll be so impressed he’ll probably want to give me a back rub and massage my feet. But I’m not interested. I have my eye on the international businessman ahead of me. When I reclaim my things he’ll be picking up his Rolex from the conveyor belt (he doesn’t have any carry-ons, he has them shipped) and he’ll look me in the eyes and in his thick Italian accent, he’ll say something utterly romantic, like “nice socks.”
Once I’m through security I head straight to the ladies’ room to touch up my make-up. This is important because in my head I’ll be sitting next to a reluctant model who is trying to make his connection to Cambodia, where he plans to spend his vacation volunteering for orphans.
Of course, none of his has ever happened. If there is a man in the airport who packs his own egg salad and removes his shoes before take-off, I promise you, he’s sitting next to me. I blame this (in addition to the altitude) for the reason I get so wasted on planes.
