In case you were wondering my flight home was just as bad as my flight out. You weren't wondering? Never mind, you get to hear about it anyway. I was one of the last ones to board and it was a full flight, so the flight attendant announced that we needed to take any open seat (this was Southwest, so no assigned seats). I motioned to an empty middle seat in one row and the elderly lady on the end sighed audibly and said in a not kind voice, “well, I'm going to have to get up for you to get in.” I apologized, as I haven't yet learned to teleport, and it dawned on me that this woman was my karmic payback for my open letter to American retirees. After a few minutes of sorting out seat belts punctuated by lots of heavy sighing (no, I'm terribly sorry, this one really is mine, I think you must be sitting on yours), the flight attendant welcomed us aboard our flight to Kansas City and heavy-sigher turned and asked me where I was headed. Kansas City, I said. Really, she said, where all the murders are! Murders, I asked, innocently? Her eyes got wide. Her voice was loud and childlike. Haven't you heard about all the murders? No. She looked at me like I was a moron. I turned and looked out the window and pretended to be fascinated with the runway stripes, but she was not so easily deterred. She spent the entire flight telling me about her swollen ankles, learning to play roulette on a cruise ship (is there really anything to learn—don't they just spin a wheel?), wondering whether she would get home in time to watch Bowling for Dollars and, of course, the melee of carnage that is Kansas City. She may have told me more but I made sure my mp3 player was fully charged for my flight home and put it on as soon as we were fully airborne.
Someone asked me the other day what I had against old people. Absolutely nothing. I aspire to be one some day. I know plenty of older people, including my 96-year-old grandmother, who are hands-down the loveliest people on the planet. Kind, thoughtful, intelligent, salt of the earth people. I also know some that are fatuous, rude and surly. I know young people who fit both descriptions as well. And I know that getting older comes with some unpleasant side effects (as do all ages and, generally, life as a humanoid). Your body is falling apart and your friends are dying. I get it. Still. Not an excuse to vote wrong and run your Plymouth into my mailbox. I’m just saying.
More importantly, Celeste and I have a pressing dilemma. So I don’t have to type the whole thing out I’ll let you read our Facebook conversation.
By the way, in case you’re wondering about my profile picture, it’s doppelganger week on Facebook, where you’re supposed to post a picture of a celebrity lookalike. I have no idea who this chick is, but I’m sure she’s tired of everyone calling her Kristin. And yes, Celeste really does look exactly like a cat.
So anyway, now Celeste and I have to find a new place to eat where we don’t have some guy in a white apron groping us while we’re trying to decide between grilled vegetables and caeser salad. And no, you don’t want to know if deli perv is over 65 because if I tell you you’re just going to pigeon-hole me as an ageist.
P.S. I *told* you she ate seaweed!