I haven't been around in awhile. I left for a bit to go on a stately tour of the Library of Congress, where one of our authors had received an esteemed literary award. It is one of the most beautiful buildings I've seen. Libraries have always been special to me. But as I walked the ornate halls, it suddenly all came together - my literary life flashed before me. All the years that everyone else (read: normal teenagers) had been playing Mallrats and/or tonsil hockey, I had been holed up at the library. The familiar reddish fro of the librarian and her denim frock, her disdain for my constant presence and my overconsumption of book check-outs came flooding into my mind.
When I was little, my parents did that whole reverse-psychology thing with me. If I was good, I "got" to go to the library squished in the back of the housekeeper's car -- lucky me! I would beg (I wish I was kidding about this part) to go. Given the choice between the movies and library, I'd pick library in a heartbeat. "Please? Pretty please?"
But back to the Library of Congress. My eyes flew back to the ornate walls and columns, avoiding confrontation with the fact that my entire life/career/business might be built upon my childhood, which I once viewed as "unusual" or "enriched", and now clearly saw in bold hues of "NERD". We got a private tour and hob-nobbed with the staff. (Despite the chicanery, I'm apparently still a sucker for a well-stocked library.)
I hadn't accustomed myself to the high life for long before reality caught up with me. As if suddenly shaken from a beautiful dream, I found myself but two days later mid-transit on... could it be???... I was riding one of those golf cart things at the airport. Previously thought to be reserved for the handicapped or extremely mature of age, my fine twentysomething self sat up straight right behind the driver, who had insisted I ride to my gate if I wanted to make my flight. Already shamed by what would clearly appear to be my blatant laziness, I avoided eye contact as we whizzed through the hallways of Dallas International.
My eyes averted, my ears didn't deceive me. I slid down in my seat, sheepishly looking at my feet. Although my cart was being driven by a man clearly of South Indian origin (in physique and accent), he wove in and out of terrified travelers, frozen like deer in headlights by his calls as we approached. Heavy Indian accent notwithstanding, he shouted "ANDALE.... AND-A-LAYYYYYYYY! VAMOS!!!!!!! ANDALLLLEEEEEEEEEEEE!", eyes bugging out, waving furiously (but happily), leaning precariously out of his driver's seat. Santa Claus after a drinking binge. "ANDALEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!". This to the amusement of the many (genuine) Latinos who populated the airport that night.
I can't begin to capture this scene for you.
I sat fidgeting with my phone and hoping the earth might choose that moment to wreak havoc upon Texas and perhaps swallow me whole. I know that given the recent Hurricanes that might have been a selfish thought, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Terminal after terminal (have you ever BEEN to this airport? It's humongous), I remained captive to his motor frenzy. Lean left-lean right-lean left-jerk to a stop.
I was the Queen of the Freaky Parade. Can't say I never won nothin'.
Somewhere between that death-defying experience and my recent battle with illness (ok, a cold), I had a chance to reflect upon some events in my life. As I was recounting the story of the night my best friend and I went out to the bar where she then met the man who would be her fiance, I reflected that the night had turned out quite differently for me. Ah, what different souvenirs we gather as we walk along the road of life. Mine that night were -- oh yes -- a soggy cheese sandwich and a monumental hangover.
I've started to refer to the cute blonde guy in the building, who I've seen all of three times (over the last year, exclusively in the elevator), as "my boyfriend". Take that how you will.
I tried yet again (in my Sudafed intoxication, I was persuaded) to watch Seinfeld. Strike One: Kathy Griffin guest appearance. Yuck. I still can't believe she gets paid to do ANYTHING. I'd pay her to be a human cannonball into the La Brea tar pits, but that's about it. Seinfeld, upon this millionth reviewing, revealed itself to be... what's the word? Oh yeah, IRRITATING. This is my final opinion on the matter. I have put in good faith viewings because people I love and respect enjoy this show. But I can't put up the charade anymore. Tonight I have issued forth a severe judgment. It's me or him. Mention his name before me at your own peril.
I'm not kidding. If I want to watch irritating neurotic people badger on another, I'll go back to Highland Park, thank you very much. Ugh. Every time there's a scene change, I hope against hope that a new cast will come on. I don't know why I ever agree to watch it. I cave! It's like when you're already buzzed and you do shots because everyone tells you to and you just get into the swing of things- but you know from experience time and again that it's gonna suck and you're gonna be sorry you did.
I have Seinfeld hangover right now.