Blame it on the airport

I used to write quite frequently. By that I mean I scrolled out what I believed to be tidbits of absolute genius on napkins when I was a waitress waiting for the "fresh" bread to de-thaw for table 10 and sentences of pure brilliance on hotel stationary when I was checking guests in and out of rooms at a hotel, most likely posting inaccurate mini bar items to your account post departure (just so you know). I wrote before work and after work, whatever that work might entail and thought rather cheerfully about the day when they both would amount to the same thing.
Then I stopped. They haven't amounted to the same thing in the slightest form and in fact have wandered farther and farther away from each other to the point where I've been a member of this online community for nearly six months (this is my fourth login) and there is some unknown substance on my s and d tabs on my laptop. Its clearly been there for awhile, its hardened and is not coming off no matter how many times I flick with my fingernails. This is saddening on several levels. Once I stopped I was busy elsewhere. I met someone, there was a lot of sex, I was pregnant, I moved to a different state, we had the baby, plus a different job, we bought new sofas, put a dog through chemotherapy, replaced the carpet, changed a hell of a lot of diapers, I changed my hair color, my sister and my mother were married, I drank a lot of wine, tried scotch, found out I prefer wine, quit smoking, regretted quitting smoking...I was busy.

I think every now and then about writing, but then its bedtime and laundry needs to be changed, and there's an email with work and then a text message asking if I got the email and then a fucking phone call asking if I'd read the text message about the email. Then its dinner and the bed still wasn't made and I'm wondering how bad is it to wear pj's for several days in a row, then finding myself in the teenage section at the local Walgreens seriously debating false eye lashes like that's the answer as to why we are both too tired to take all of our clothes off in the evening ----

These are the times I think about writing. Or when I am sitting in the Delta lounge waiting for my flight. My husband and I are both on our computers, our son on his ipad watching a movie with a lot of robots and red leotards. But instead of writing, I'm watching the other passengers waiting for their flights, belly up to the bar, make their moves, order their glasses of diet coke, vodka sodas, miller light and walk away. A little bit happier knowing the next passage of wasted time will be spent in the company of cheap free liquor the club gives away as appreciation for either paying too much for a ticket, flying too much to care about paying too much or not caring either way about much of anything. And I began to notice the men. The younger man walks away from the bar with his water glass and no plastic container full of peanuts. He needs to stay clear to make that phone call, call his girlfriend, impress his boss, organize his files and be able to hit the gym once he lands and gets to the hotel. That man, fast forwarded five years is grabbing a miller light, one container full of peanuts. His gut is a little bit larger than preferred. I mean, not enough to for real concern, but maybe a few more nights at the gym... maybe. One year more down the road, his shirt is a size and a half too large. (to prep for the future) That night at the gym isn't going to happen, but hey! The drinks are free! Did he know this 6 YEARS ago??? Why get one container of nuts, when two is as easy to carry - you just stack them on top on one another. He doesn't need to call his wife, she's screening his calls most likely. Or it's bedtime, bathtime, worktime, dinner time, anytime other than hey I'm calling to let you know I'm alive still and have little else to report time. Three cups of nuts are even easier than two and who the fuck knew all of these years the drinks were free???

I watched a man walk down the three steps with four careful stacks chock full of assorted nuts and three drinks balanced in his hands - I watched him walk to his solitary seat and wait in anticipation for his guests to join. His tummy was over flowing his khaki pants and black shirt. His shoes old and used. It was painful to watch the progress. I watched and waited, but no friends came. No colleagues. No wife or son or daughter or distant cousin. There were no phone calls made. No wife or girlfriend to impress, or remind him how unimpressive he was by calling. He sat and I watched, my drink in hand, frozen. He ate all the nuts and stared at his drinks. Then he drank the drinks like dominoes falling down in their proper time and place.

I used to write, all the time. I used to dream about who'd I'd be and what I would say once I got to where I was going to get. Instead, I'm holding an untouched glass of cheap, free vodka. I have nothing to say of any interest to the person I'm committed to spending the rest of my life with. Unless I disappear into a pair of sparkling tights and a face mask, my son would be happier if I remained a strange mass in a close enough chair. I'm terribly out of practice, but maybe ---

I'm not the only person life didn't turn out quite like they thought.