Well, except for that one time and that was a fluke. I swear.
The airport staff at DFW forgot about me and left me sitting at the terminal in a wheelchair with a broken ankle. Not that I knew yet that it was broken, but still. I am certain that if a stranger had not taken pity on me, I’d still be waiting at gate 32 C.
All I want at this point is to find my seat, order an adult beverage and pretend I am still on my cruise with my girlfriends.
22A is open, I take it and the cabin steward takes my crutches.
So what if I’m supposed to be in 22B, it’s a middle seat and I want the window. Surely whomever has the window seat will see my plight, take pity on me and not make me move.
Turns out he too is tired, wants to find his seat, and order his own adult beverage and we recognize each other immediately.
I, the stubborn redhead sitting in his seat and he, the tall stranger standing in the aisle announcing confidently, “I know you are going to move over, right?”
He is right. I move. Broken ankle and all. Granted not without a sassy “Oh sure, make the cripple move.” We like each other instantly right up until 22C arrives.
He spends most of the flight talking to her.
I don’t blame him. She is young, cute, probably single and in town for a short business trip. Watching him work is very entertaining to say the least.
I’ll be honest, it takes everything I have not to pop off with a “Shoulda let me keep the window seat.” but my drink arrives and I have bigger things to figure out like explaining my broken ankle to my husband.
As we get ready to make our descent to Tulsa, Mr. 22A remembers that I am in the row and says to me, “So let me guess, you’re a housewife.”
He strikes out with 22C and that’s the best he’s got for me?
I know, I know. I’m married. I shouldn’t care but crimony the dude could at least TRY!
I already know – because it’s hard not to eaves drop when you are stuck in the middle – that Mr. 22A’s name is Tim*, he is a physician’s assistant / surgeon who is just returning from taking care of his old sick mother in Atlanta and he had two brother’s who have died leaving her alone with just him to care for her…
blah blah blah gag me.
I mean she got the “I’m a rich doctor who loves his mother.” pickup, and I get “housewife.” like I’m some kind of consolation prize or something.
At 48 years old, this cuts me to the quick. He’s not exactly a Spring chicken himself mind you. I have zero interest in this man and yet there is no way I’m letting housewife go unchallenged. Even if it is true.
“As a matter of fact, I’m a stand up comic.”
So there Mr Bigshot!
What happens next is a blur.
Within three minutes he is wanting to know where I do comedy in Tulsa and asks for my phone number so that I can let him know when my next gig is.
I give him my number.
He even sends me a text when we land so that he doesn’t lose it. Oh boy. I am so in trouble.
It has been at least 20 years since a man has asked for my phone number. I can’t remember how to make one up. This is going to take some serious “splaining” as Ricky Ricardo would say.
I’ve taken two vacations ever in my entire life with my girlfriends and I come home from the second one with a broken ankle and now some guy I just met on the plane has my phone number.
This should be interesting.
I do quick introductions in luggage. Mr 22A waits with my wheelchair while my husband gets the car and we never see each other again.
Who says life after kids is boring?
*Name changed to protect his identity, not that I believe he gave me his real name in the first place. I’m not even sure that he’s a surgeon. I did get the text he sent me on the plane asking for my next gig and I sent him the link to the Comedy Palace where I hope to be performing soon and left it at that. I had surgery shortly after my trip and I’m still in a boot. It’s going to be a long time before I get to do comedy again.
I am also fairly certain that it is going to be a LOOONG time before I get a weekend pass to go on a vacay with my girlfriends again as well.
I love songwriters.
Real song writers.
Maybe I’m partial because I married one. Granted mine has a day job, so he’s more like an artist who eats.
I love real musicians who not only actually play instruments, they write their own songs.
I’d rather listen to an original than a cover.
John has a gritty and soulful voice that lifts me up.
Now here is a love song that I can get into.