Sitting in the airport....

It's been a while since I've been this excited/nervous. I'm sure the fact that I haven't slept since 7am yesterday morning isn't helping; I'm rather wired on top of being tired and hungry. I'm positive I put those fruit snacks and pistachios in my bag... but after 6 attempts at subtle searching I haven't managed to located it-

Oh. Right. I forgot about that other zipper pocket. Silly me. At least I know I'm not crazy now. No, I've just confirmed, again, that I am hopelessly absentminded.

Memo: When in doubt, just squeeze the damn bad and see if you can hear what you're looking for.
The highlight of my drive to the airport, besides the novelty of leaving for San Fran at 2 in the morning (I'm usually going to BED at 12:30, not getting up), was the motel sign.

Imagine this: you are driving a freeway at night, or early morning. All is pitch black, save the lights inside your car (you eye the speedometer as it fluctuates between 65 and 75), and the twinkling lights on the streets and businesses flying by. There may even be a car or two joining you on the lonely road to nowhere. (San Fran isn't exactly NOwhere, but for drama's sake, we'll go with that.)

All of a sudden, you see it. This sign is brighter than all the others you've passed those last ten miles. Bright white-yellow, it glows like some fucking beacon of hope in your sleepy world. It says: Otel.
Granted, I don't know if it was a Motel or a Hotel, but if the first letter is missing, who cares? Otels they shall remain for the rest of my days. At least, for as long as I can remember.

There's a cafe across from my terminal. Serving breakfast. Right before I was distracted by the sign saying “free wi-fi!” the smell of hot cocoa (or coffee) wafted towards me.

Keep in mind, I haven't partaken in coffee or hot chocolate in months. It's scintillating, like a word you know you used to know how to spell but can't quite remember how it felt to write it out without checking it on an online dictionary first...

And then I notice that the guy sitting across from me seems to be wearing the same pants I am. Same color, similar thread color, almost the same style... and for once I'm afraid a guy looks better in my pants than I do.

I'll enjoy a little giggle out of that for a second. But that coffee is now coupled with maple syrup, and my attention must be swayed. I've had strawberry lemonade, edamame, and a banana since I left home at 2:15. French toast suddenly sounds better than sex. Or maybe that's the “in my pants” joke still talking.

I haven't scoped out my company much yet. There are fewer business people than I expected, given the time of day. One or two, maybe, so far. For the most part there are just lots of scruffy, tired looking people. Like me, except I've showered.

The guy with my pants sneezed, I said bless you, we had that momentary connection. Then we went on as two tired individuals lost in our own worlds.

And all I can think about is my stomach, and who I'll sit next to on my flight. To be continued!