I am writing this post soaring 500 miles an hour while listening to ‘High Flying Adored’ from the Evita movie soundtrack (I am a sucker for a whore gone good story). Clay is 20 rows back (last minute booking = no two seats together) and the man next to me is snoring with a toothpick in his mouth. I have no pen for the crossword and I am too cheap to pay the $4.95 for in-flight wi-fi. So I might as well write to pass the time (and to keep from thinking of how I miss the little guy); after all, one of my goals for 2011 is to write more and learn to love what I have to say (even if you don’t).
You know, I am constantly amazed at the sociology experiment known as an airport. Where else can you find overpriced alcohol drinks, bored employees, too tight sweats, and people willing to behave in such a manner that would have banished them to the time-out rug in kindergarten? Okay, I stand corrected,
I pretty much just described most American service-based establishments. Regardless, somewhere along the way to adulthood, flying lost the magic I experienced as a little girl. Gone are the days of excitedly sipping soda, flipping through Sky Mall, and kicking the seat in front of me. Bye-bye free airline food and decent in-flight movies. Instead, all I can think of is how this plane smells like farts. It doesn’t help that the flight attendants left the first class curtain open so I have a fabulous view of patrons in cushy leather seats drinking champagne, eating filet, and discussing how sorry they feel for the little people in
We’re flying into Dallas, as opposed to Oklahoma City (saved about $300), where we will rent a car (a fancy schmancy mid-size) and drive our little hearts out for three hours before gracing Lawton with our presence. Okay. My eyes hurt. Time to stop. Until next time…bye from fartland!