Let’s just say that while I do it often, I hate to fly. I always sit next to people who don’t respect the Arm Rest Demilitarized Zone and I spend the whole flight defending my personal space from germy arm invasion. Between that and the air filters that blast freezing cold cooties at my face the whole time, after long flights I almost always end up sick.
I was blowing my nose outside of the United terminal when my friends pulled up. I was barely inside the car before my friend Bongzo announced, “Guess what?! I finally got my medical marijuana prescription!”
Now, for those of you who are not familiar with SF, getting a marijuana license is as big of milestone as a quinceañera, and it’s celebrated the same way: a big party with lots of food where guests give money to the honoree in return for party favors.
“Congratulations!” I said. “What did they write it for?”
“Glaucoma,” she said, beaming.
As soon as we got home I went back out to the Walgreens for something to help my imploding sinuses. In the decongestant aisle, I picked up a card for Wal-phed (I’d buy Sudafed, but I’m not made of money, people) and followed the instructions to take it to the pharmacy window.
“You don’t keep this on the shelves?” I asked.
“Not in California—just trying to regulate it. Can I see your license?”
“Woah, there must be something way more fun I can be doing with this,” I said, handing over my Illinois ID.
Note to reader: Never make jokes about methamphetamine in a Walgreens on Haight Street. If you do, you may wind up answering a lot of questions from Luis, the pharmacy manager, who will try to count your teeth while you respond. Turns out that while San Francisco gives out weed like beads at Mardi Gras, it takes colds very, very seriously.
After the background check was complete, I paid from my nose spray, Vitamin C drops and Wal-phed and headed home where Bongzo managed to hot box the entire two-floor apartment and I began intense round of nasal flushing.
Oh San Francisco, I’ve missed you.
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.
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