You said I must eat so many lemons, cause I am so bitter. I said I'd rather be with your friends mate, cause they are much fitter.

Friday. This was the day I caught my flight. The night before, I planned out the entire schedule of how my morning was going to run. Wake up. Go to the office. Converse with boss. Pick-up paperwork. Drive to airport. Simple, clean cut, and easy. I messed up at step one. I didn't wake up and ended up sleeping in late (something that seems to be happening a lot lately). Due to this complication, I ended up making it to the office later than usual and my boss was no longer in and I wasn't able to have that "important" chat (here's where I sarcastically add in a "too bad"). I got the to airport late (as expected), checked in, ran through security, and hustled to the terminal before realizing that the flight boarding wasn't my flight, instead it was going to Tuscan or something and the other like that. I pondered. I went over "the plan" in my head. I must have stood there puzzling over it in quite a state for quite a while because that this point an airport attendant neatly taps me on the shoulder to make sure I was "okay." At that I quietly retreated from the spotlight to puzzle more. 

Upon finding a place to sit and wonder . . . I finally think up the wonderful idea of looking at my flight schedule on my ticket (naturally this is the last thing I thought of, ha!). I cursed and rubbed my temples. My flight wasn't for another two hours. So, I got to sit in the airport way longer than any normal person would want to, for no real cause other than the fact that I wasn't "capable" enough apparently to actually read my flight information. 

I suppose, on the positive side, this did allow for me to "connect" to an array of people that I would have otherwise been oblivious of. The first was the elderly man going to see his son in Los Angles. He said I had pretty eyes and reminded him of his daughter. She was in Florida and we both liked to read French philosophy (yes, I finally pulled my Diderot off the shelf). The second was a mother of . . . three . . . sons. They were going haywire. We met when the youngest (I assume) crawled up in the seat next to me, started poking me, and told me I must be crazy because I was reading my book upside down (I'm guessing he assumed French was upside down English . . . sheesh, aren't kids . . . cute?). His mother apologized and struck up conversation about how kids are crazy and how I was smart to not have any . . . Hmm? I wonder if that is what my mother thought? 

At this point I had to take a break, go to the bathroom, splash a little water on my face, pick up on overpriced muffin (I neglected to grab a croissant in the rush of the morning, that now seemed pointless). By the time I arrived back at my seat, the mother was gone, replaced by a familiar face. I couldn't exactly remember where I had seen it before, but he remembered me so I played along. Asked how my job was, I said fine and asked the same. He replied the same. It was the most awkward 20 minute conversation of my life . . . because every second I spent it trying to place the face hoping I wouldn't say anything to give myself away. I wouldn't remember who it was until the next morning, when I would be hovering over the crossword, stop say "aha!" not because I found a word, but a name instead. I would repeat the name over and over. He was one of John's mates, helped with the move . . . nearly killed my dogfaced pufferfish. Well, it felt good knowing. 

Next, it was the middle-aged man who was trying to do the crossword (different newspaper) and, I, reading over his shoulder, helped him out. I think he thought I was a creeper (because let's be honest, it's kind of a creeper thing to do) but once he figured I wasn't going to chop him up, he warmed up and let me finish with him. After that an angsting teen struck up a conversation with me . . . she probably wasn't a teen anymore, more like 20 or 21 . . . it felt like I was talking to a student . . . but not about schoolwork. We chatted about school, dating, music, how much she hates her parents, you know, the generics of a teenage life. Then, I got a tap on the shoulder. I turned and became instantly grateful. It was one of my colleagues. 

After some chitchat, the plane arrived, I boarded. We were unable to seat next to each other, so I was situated next to a window and a business-type-looking-man while, Sally, my friend and colleague, was situated in the middle aisle stuck between two people. It looked uncomfortable . . . for her. My other colleagues were somewhere towards the front of the plane. Thankfully. Lift off. 

To ease into the flight I pull out my Diderot, put on my headphones (Kate Nash, "Made of Bricks") and began to read. The business man next to me taps me on the shoulder. I become irritated, only slightly though, take off my headphones, and put my book down. He asks what I'm reading. Diderot, Jacques le fataliste et son maitre, I responded. Then it all unfolds. He's some French teacher, professor, extraordinaire . . . not a businessman (which explains why his briefcase looked fake). So we run down the introductory list, move on to music, likes, dislikes, find out we're both going to Columbia. Wow, that's neat! Apparently. At this point I've been so distracted by conversation to not notice the obvious discomfort of Sally, across the aisle. The people to both side of her have fallen asleep . . . on her. The person closest to myself is using her breast as his own personal pillow, to which I lean over and say "just push him aside . . . he won't mind . . . he's asleep." 

She begins her attempt to wake the man, however, this effort is thwarted when the child sitting directly behind the man thinks it'll be hilarious to begin tickling the man's ankles. He doesn't wake up and instead begins to butt his head further into Sally breast and side. Hmm, he seems catatonic. However, the next series of events proves that he is not. The child behind him decides that tickling ankles was just not as fun as it should be. It decides that jabbing a green colored pencil into the ankle is a better alternative . . . so, it does just that. The sleeping man awakes! Shrieks in pain! Jumps up and forward! 

In any normal case, people would have stared a little bit, made conversation about the incident, and moved on. However, this wasn't a normal incident. It just so happened that when the man happened to jump up startled, Sally was leaning over him about to pop him in the nose (to wake him as well). His sudden jump reared his head back into her face causing instant trauma to her nose (this seems to be happening more than often, as well). It started bleeding, which of course, set the stewardess into a panic. While Sally was administered first aid, the man began to hastily scold the parents belonging to the child with a predilection for green colored pencils. Argument ensued. The stewardess had to break it up. 

When Sally returned to her seat, battered but not broken, the man seemed still in need to pick a fight . . . and with her apparently, because, while she had sustained a bloody nose, his head hurt just a tad bit more than it should have, again apparently. Let's just say the argument didn't end with a soft and nice resolution. Instead, it ended with Sally smothering his face in her chest (some tangent from the whole "he-was-using-it-as-a-pillow" thing) and questioning (rhetorically) if he'd like to go take another nap (as if you couldn't tell, she kind of has a short wire). Of course, this wasn't the natural ending, which probably would have been far worse. Instead it was cut short, due to the plane landing. 

Well, it's never a real flight unless injury is involved and someone gets half smothered in a lady's cleavage. Let's just say Sally spent the entire night trying to forget the entire incident ever happened (with alcohol, of course). Oh, and the French non businessman gave me his phone number . . . to get drinks after we landed . . . I guess?