I’m still so undecided about how I feel about airports. I can’t decide if I love them or hate them. I love them because something ridiculous always happens, without fail. Usually that makes me laugh. I hate them because they are usually filled with obnoxious people.

I’m 23 years old. Yes, there are a lot of 23 year olds out there. But not a lot of 23 year olds fly. Which means when I fly, which happens anywhere from 1-4 times a year, I usually end up sitting next to someone who has no interest in talking to me whatsoever. I don’t blame them. They’d rather not risk hearing the word “like” 6 times in a sentence. Maybe I should fly to Vegas. Because those people gamble. And they’d want to have sex in the bathroom with a 23 year old to gain Mile High status and get their “stays in Vegas” on quicker. Does airspace count?

I was boarding the plane in Atlanta, my connection to Tampa, when I got to row..18? Where ever the hell I was. Oh, by the way. Delta, go fuck yourself for charging for Wi-Fi. Seriously? SERIOUSLY? It”s the INTERNET. FREE. Like libraries. BLOW ME.

Sorry for that ADD bullet point. Anyhoo, I got to my aisle, and I was at the window (Yessss!) and wow, the guy in the middle? Kinda cute. Kinda young. Kinda weird. Unexpected. And he totally had the same look on his face when he saw me. Like, “Youth? Vitality? Non-crochetyness? Ok!”

So he moved out of the way, I got to my seat, sat down, and promptly started chugging my coffee. About 3 minutes later he pulls a book out of his laptop bag, and I rudely looked over his shoulder to see what he was reading (what? It’s my thing. Books. I dig.) and was shockingly turned on. To the max. You’d never guess what it was.

Simply Christian. No, I am not Christian, in any way shape or form. But cute Christian boys? Basically what it comes down to, in layman’s terms, is that I’d like to ruffle some feathers. Even though I’m sure he’s gangbanged some born-again high schoolers, in my mind….he’s a virgin thats only done some groping in a movie theater. And either I’m hotter than I think I am, or I was totally right. All about the body language.

I have an app on my phone. It tracks ovulation. Shut up. I know I’m a nerd. I really got it so it could predict my periods for me because I am entirely too scatterbrained to keep track. Thus the reason I have socks on right now but no underwear. See what I mean?

Another ADD bullet point: better name for the ovulation app? Currently called “My Days”? There Will Be Blood. HA.

I didn’t know this at the time, as I do now, but my sudden urge to rub my genitals all over his book and arm? Ovulation. And it was reeeeaaal bad. I’m talking, I can’t put my hands on my thighs in a resting position because I might have my own personal American Pie and PREEJ all over the damn place.

In between me rolling my eyes heavily over how ridiculous my body was reacting to the hot peach I was sitting next to, I read something in Chapter Whatever about God’s self-expression (really? Shut up, book) and started to feel a little uncomfortable.

Because I mean, how often are you crammed next to someone that you’re thinking horribly dirty thoughts about? I was half afraid I’d blurt out a “YES! RIGHT THERE!” when he passed me my cheap Biscotti biscuit and the cup containing Coke Zero over ice, because thats how airlines fuck you. By giving you half a can of soda in a container you know you’re going to spill all over yourself. I need a lid, because I’m special. Especially dumb.

Seatbelt sign goes off, I dive under the seat in front of me and finagle my laptop out of its bag, with headphones, and promptly start watching “The Blind Side”. Hoping Sandra Bullock’s tight ass will distract me from surfer boy next to me. He pulls out his iPod touch and plugs in, and I see in my previously discussed amazing periph that it’s not turning on. So he puts it back in his bag and sits back and just looks forward. And, because I’m sweet, I hand him a headphone. So we sit there and watch the last half of the movie together.

If I was trying to actually get into his pants, I’d have scored some major romantic-comedy points right there. Too bad I’m cynical and crazy and know better than to think I could be both romantic and comical at the same time. My idea is romance is rough sex, my idea of comedy is dutch ovens.

The movie ends, and he starts a conversation, as I knew he was going to. We had a conversation. He lives in Lakeland.

Screeching halt.

Yick.

He’s on his way back to Tampa from Los Angeles, where he went to meet with some producers for a documentary he’s directing.

I’m sorry, am I sitting on an airplane, or am I in Starbucks?

Now, if I tell you the name of his proposed documentary, who will star in it and what it will be about, AND it actually is made and in 2 years we will all know what it is, this blog can bite me in the ass in 1 of 2 ways. He’ll have either become really not hot and I’ll be like, “Seriously, Jen?” Worse, you’ll be like, “Seriously, Jen?” Or, he’ll be hotter and you and I will be like, “You never had a chance in hell, Jen.” Worse, he’ll be rich. I’ve been in the market for a Sugar Daddy.

Either way, he told me the proposed “actor” for this documentary, and I didn’t stop giggling for 5 minutes. We got off the plane together, walked up the jetway together, got on the shuttle together, after which we parted ways because he had to go baggage claim and I had to go…pee. Never got his name. Awkward parting. One in which numbers probably could have been exchanged, but I bounced before it became too awkward. Thank goodness nature called.

So, to reiterate my original point, kind of like how you’re instructed to do in middle school when you write the 5 by 5 essay, I’m undecided on whether I love or hate airports.

That story is in the plus column for airports, as is this snippet:

While I’m sitting on the plane in Atlanta, people are still boarding. You watch them get on, see the bitchy moms, cranky old people, the Zuni tribesmen, and the bloated drunk businessmen. I see a scruffy white guy walk on with a fedora, wearing a stained somewhat white undershirt. No big deal. He’s a trashy mofo, it happens. He shifts his body to the right, and we all see that he’s clutching a brand new issue of Maxim. Ha. Classy. Wait, it gets better. He walks by my aisle, and his carry-on is….drumroll, please. A black trashbag. Even better, he smells terrible and is totally baked out of his mind.

Thats why I love airports.  Done and done.