Rand and I are on our way to Oslo, though by the time I post this, we’ll already be there (barring the usual global disasters). We’re currently in the Newark Airport, still reeling from our adventure at Sea-Tac eight hours ago. Needless to say, we made the flight because of Rand, who managed to get us through a one-and-a-half-hour security line in 20 minutes.
He might have offered the devil our first born child in exchange, but whatever. I mean, first-borns are practice, anyway. They’re the ones on which you screw up, right?
And now we’re halfway through our three hour lay-over in the waiting area of Gate One-Hundred and Something. I am tired – crazy tired, and hoping that I’ll manage to get some sleep on the plane, even though that’s not something I’m usually able to do. In the meantime, my brain is allowing that random walk of thoughts that only happens when we are very, very tired. In no particular order, here’s some of the nonsense that’s worked inteself through my head:
- How awful would it be to the be the ugly Jonas Brother whom you just know is no one’s favorite?
- Man, I need some waterproof boots.
- I wonder if that dude who’s asleep on the floor realizes he’s asleep on the floor … in NEWARK. Is he going to miss his flight? Or contract cholera?
- Spina Bifida must suck.
- Oh god, it reaks of pooh. And scents are airborne particles, which means I’m breathing in tiny particles of pooh. Oh, god. I AM BREATHING SOMEONE ELSE’S DIGESTED BIG MAC.
- That show starring Joel from Mercer Island is good. Like, really good. I don’t know whether to be proud or jealous. I think I’ll go with prealous.
- Did I remember to water my plant before leaving? No. Nope. Dead. It will be DEAD by the time I get home.
- I will be in Newark four times in two weeks. That seems a bit much.
- Shit. What the fuck am I doing with my life?
Anyway, you get the idea. I’m feeling exhausted and weird and insecure, and I’m off for a week to a cold climate full of (I imagine, at least) tall beautiful blond people. And …
Huh. Go figure. Just when I’m feeling neurotic and lonely and stupid and sick of travel, Rand shows up with this:
“But … but you don’t like sprinkles,” I say, a bit confused.
“No,” he replies, “but you do.”
And suddenly everything is okay again.