I’ll admit, I have a bit of a complicated relationship with the airport.
When I travel alone – love. Like a dozen pink, white, and red mixed roses on John Legend’s piano kind of love. Time to cozy up in a corner with the promise of a great new book while wearing minimal make-up and elastic-waisted pants without the slightest hint of guilt. I’ll generally upgrade my standard Starbucks, or perhaps permit a fro-to for lunch. I may nap in public briefly, and I’ll assuredly engage in all the people-watching I could ever want with reckless abandon.
When I travel with someone else, though, things change. Morning coffee turns somehow into celebratory vacation breakfast tacos. The airport bar, which alone I may only rarely consider, becomes mandatory. And the greasy pub grub hastily ordered and demolished on a 30-minute layover wears off halfway through the in-flight rom-com making a $7.00 cookie the size of the islands we are flying over make perfect sense. Beyond that, it seems like something I SHOULD do. I think, “Well, it’s another 90 minutes until we land, and it could be another two hours after that before we eat again. I could starve myself in that time down from a puffy, over-salted, dehydrated blob to a slightly less swollen, verging on normal-sized girlish figure. Can’t chance that. I’ll take the cookie and another ginger ale (because when else can you get it?).”
It’s especially tough traveling with Sideshow Blob because all these airport transgressions run weeping from the supreme (and supremely unfair) mighty metaBROism. He does not, I’m quite certain, waste even one thought wondering where the Guinness and fries from Gate D17 might bulge out over the top of his board shorts when we hit the beach tomorrow.
I, alternately, feel each sip of Guinness adhering to my hips, and every french fry scuttling over my already dimpled thighs. No chance of anything enjoyed in the airport today making it inside my new bikini. That thing was already testing the scientific limits of Lycra back in the fitting room. There have been untold dietetic horrors since that time involving wings, beer, champagne, and sundry cocktails of every size, shape, and color.
Maybe a long run tomorrow before hitting the beach will at least help me forget what I did in the airport today.