Title: Writer (Comique Tristesse)

Gender: Female

Age: 22

Sun Sign: Aquarius

Chinese Sign: Fire Tiger

Location: New York

It never fails.
Every time I go on a flight, someone feels the need to tell me a story. I go on a lot of flights. I hear a lot of stories. I don’t know what it is, maybe I just have one of those faces that people look at and assume “Oh, she looks friendly enough, maybe I’ll transfer all of my nervousness onto her via a really long life story that she may or may not want to hear.” Fuck me. Don’t these people realize that I’m already having an emotional panic attack because I have to fly and the reason I have to fly is because I need to get away from my life or I’ll have an emotional panic attack that looks similar to an emotional breakdown?
Obviously not. Why would they? Outwardly I am the picture of calm and collected. Look at me: smartly dressed in black cashmere on top, dark washed jeans tucked into tall black boots, shoulder length dark hair shining in the light of the airport gate. Expression: solid, unwavering as I type away on a glittering new laptop perched ever so carefully in on my lap. The bluetooth blinks its LED light from my ear as I mumble something to someone: “Yes, I’m sitting at the gate now. I’m fine. I just bought a venti caramel mochiatto (that’s sitting down by my feet, safely away from the laptop) why wouldn’t I be fine? No. I’m good. I’ll be fine. Yes. I love you too. Yes I’ll call when I land. Okay. Right. I love you too. Okay, Bye.” One of my overly concerned family members.
So obviously I look like someone whose got it together. I mean, I do have it together. I’m on track to graduate Summa Cum Laude. I have a fabulous job working for an elected official. I have my own apartment (student housing, but fabulously decorated). I even have my own dog, perfect in that she matches me in every way, petite, pretty, and too smart for her own good. Oh. Right. I also have: a tendency to have heart palpultations when I get too stressed out. In addition to, a freezer full of frozen single serving meals, as I rarely have company. And, oh, how could I forget? I also have a rather intense dislike for human emotions.
That’s right. I don’t like being put into situations where I’ll have to display emotions. That being said, I’ve already had my tear ducts surgically removed. Oh, well, not really but you have a better chance of seeing Mickey Rooney grow than you do seeing me cry. I don’t get overly excited. About anything. I also don’t show it if I do per chance become happy or excited. I maintain a level of grace and dignity which to some might seem “cold”, but to me, it just shows that nothing can shake me. I am stable, I am a rock. I am the only rock I’ll ever have, right? If I can’t be strong for me you sure as hell know no one else would be holding all the pieces when everything comes falling down.
Did I mention I’m a New Yorker? I’m chilled like a bottle of white zin that’s been sitting in ice and water for an hour and half (might I remind you, white zin only needs to sit on ice for twenty minutes before it reaches peak serving temperature). So you’d think that if someone saw me sitting at a gate in Kennedy International right before Christmas they’d know better than to try to talk to me. No. Wrong answer. Speaking of white zin, when the hell can I get on this plane and get a glass anyway?
Shit. I just kicked over the $4.80 venti sitting by my feet. And it managed to find its way onto my new $210 boots. It’s going to be a great flight. As I dig in my bag for a spare tissue (as if it’ll help, but it’ll at least look like I’m trying) that I by chance might have stashed there. Shit. Why am I trying to find something that I know isn’t there in the first place? Now people are starting to watch me thinking: “Why is that girl digging in her overly large bag when she should be cleaning the puddle of overly expensive coffee at her feet?”
“Here. You look like you could use these?” a wad of napkins had appeared merely an inch away from my nose as I looked up. Even better. Attached to the wad of napkins was a rather good looking (if not headed for middle age) man. I took them clumsily, thanking him as I blotted the coffee off of my boot (no stain) and then the floor (already stained).
Fuck. The overly handsome (overly helpful) stranger just took his handing me a wad of napkins to be an invitation to sit down next to me too. This was the airport equivalent of the kiss of death. Once they sit next to you, you know they’re going to start talking to you, and then you’re involved. Once you’re involved, you’re inevitably going to hear their story.
No wedding ring. Good to know. Though it probably meant that his story was about how he was 35, no 32, and divorced flying out to go see his new girlfriend that his ex-wife hates but pretends to like so she won’t cause a scene in front of the kids…or neighbors.
“Thank you again, do you always keep a wad of napkins on hand in case you run into a klutz?”
“Actually the klutzes usually run into me.” And he was funny. This was promising.
“Or kick coffee all over the floor.” I laughed. It was weak. Not the laugh, the line.
“Or that.” He smiled. It was warm and gentle. Everything Kennedy Airport was not at Christmas. It reminded me a little of what Christmas felt like when the sun hits the ribbon on the packages on Christmas morning.

Alright. I need to stop writing and move on with the day.

Member Since: Wednesday, October 24 2007

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