So Gee must have packed and weighed her suitcase a total of seven times during the night. She may have wanted to do it yet again at 3:30 a.m when she nudged me awake, or for another final run at 4 a.m. when I fell asleep yet again on the sofa in the living room; but the fastidious resolution and graceful ease with which she notified me of our impending departure with a fist in my face a last and final time was enough to have me batting cobwebs, taking the car keys from my perpetually yawning mother, and driving up I490 to the airport with a smile on my face and amore in my heart.
When we arrived, I parked the car at the departure stop-off, and ran with So Gee to the check-in at Air Tran. Although I knew she needed a confirmation number, I had forgotten to tell her to bring one in the rush to the airport. We had to sit through an unbearable 15 minutes or so, as the single checkout attendant befuddled a few patrons before offering us an incorrect confirmation number for input into the self-check-in kiosk, and had us sweating bullets for a few more minutes, as I glanced back at my mother waiting outside the terminal trying to look inconspicuous with her yawning dreams of making me ten pounds heavier in a matter of one week, with glutinous-packed Persian gourmet meals fit for several kings and a dwarf.
I was filled with much celebratory satisfaction as we finally moved towards the final leg of our airport experience and entered a security checkpoint line. So Gee, on the other hand, must have been going through a large mix of emotions, because she only muttered, "...Always at the airport." I took this to mean my usual frantic, nervous behavior in dealing with airport bureaucracy, or maybe it had to do with the fact that the airline attendant wouldn't let her lock her luggage.
"You okay?" I asked, and kissed her cheek.
"I'm fine," she said.
It must have been my frantic behavior. I tried to offer her some more warmth, but she semi-pushed me away.
In earlier relationships, I would have taken this as an affront and beaten myself about my behavior; and, maybe, even tried to rectify the situation. I knew it was 4 a.m. though. I knew So Gee's mind was not mine. I also knew that I had to still be a hero, and find out if my mom had gotten booted off the waiting strip, so I rushed out of the airport, hailed my mother down, and drove back with my mother's yawning fantasies intermingled with my antithetical hopes to lose ten pounds with diet and exercise.
I have already seen about seventeen infomercials that promise results in ten minutes, 90 days, and just under five, so I figure I can order a nice exercise tape and be oh-so-wine-cooler-soccer mom, and pump my body to the grooves of Dee Lite and Naught by Nature's "OPP", while the weight just sheds from my body in burning birthday candle efficiency. This is the dream I wake from as I notice a card So Gee has laid for me on the pillow beside me. I open it and marvel at her penmanship. The letters are perfectly her. The sleek, sexy Y's that pull across the page, and dip into more curtail-crossed T's; it is really a sight to behold.
The penmanship is too much for me. I cradle her, the card, and think of asking her to marry me. Then I fall asleep again. This time it is my own version of Star Wars and Indiana Jones combined. I am trying to keep from getting caught by these demon-people. I am in a pipe. Super Mario style. Harrison Ford is next to me. We say something to one another. Then I wake up. I think: "That is a great, strange dream." I run two miles. I feed my dad's cat chives and basil (for some reason the cat likes it). Then I order some dude's ten minute trainer exercise video. I have a salad with avocados, broccoli, lettuce, carrots, and raisins. I read the "Art of Racing in the Rain". I write this blog entry.
In SHORTSPEAK:
Life in America is pretty easy.
I don't do well at airports.
So Gee has good penmanship.
I bought an exercise video.
In HELLBOY SPEAK:
I will see that movie soon.
In FELLATIO IS FOR THE MEEK:
I can't swallow.
In GELATOS ARE FOR SAMURAIS:
My sword is my spoon.
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