For the record, I don’t HATE anyone. But the feeling I have for people who are landing in the same vacation destination that I am sad about leaving is a feeling that hovers in the gray area between annoyance and murderous rage. When I’m waiting at my gate for my departure flight so that I can return to Gray Jersey, and people are walking off the plane into 85 degree sunny weather, full of hope and joy and expectation to be in this beautiful place, well…I just hate them. Despite the fact that I am tan and rested, I hate them.
There was one day in Tampa where I made a beeline to the patio bar after my days’ conferences, and replied “Just f*** me up” to the bartender’s question, “What can I get you today?” I have always wanted to say that and mean it, but I knew I had to wait for the right time and right bartender. Friday was the day, and Joe just smirked and nodded, and with the seriousness of a chemist, began concocting. One drink and a four-hour nap in my villa later, I returned to Joe, congratulated him on his libation skills, and stated “Thank you sir, may I have another?” Killer poolside drink.
There was this bald guy waiting to board in front of our gate in Philadelphia, and he looked like a 1D guy. I’ve written about the freaks in 1D already. This bald guy started singing “You’ll Never Find” by Lou Rawls, just jamming and dancing to the noise that was traveling from his pods to his brain stem. And I said to myself, “He’s going to be next to me, I just know he’s going to be next to me, I just know it…” Yes. He was. Never fails. He turned out to be an o.k. seatmate in the end.
I did not make it to the Pirate Ball. I know you’re disappointed in me, so were my mates. But I had an issue that was out of my control. My presentation had ended at five, and I went right to the pool, and promptly fell asleep in the sun, mostly from relief that it was over and had gone well. Not great. Just well. When I returned to my room to get ready for the banquet, I went to charge my laptop and realized I had left my charger in the meeting salon plugged into the projector. It took security 90 minutes on a busy Saturday night to track that puppy down, but they finally delivered it to my room at 9:00 p.m. Since 9:00 is my bewitching hour, I called it a night.
Bummer. No pirate’s booty.