Were it not for that damn laminated poster......

I just returned home from yet another trip to Puerto Rico, my second in 2010. When T and I decided we wanted to migrate south for some Vitamin D therapy over the holiday season, we interviewed several other candidates. Grenada (do you know how much flights to Grenada cost? Think mortgage payments. That’s with an “s”, as in plural, more than one payment.), Florida (unpredictable temperatures this time of year), Mexico (meh....), to name a few.

Puerto Rico kept winning out, despite my reluctance. After all, I’d just been there this past spring, not to mention there is (apparently) a case of wine floating around somewhere down there for which I never received so much as a “Thanks, see you in hell, jerk.” However, my previous life as a business traveler has left me with scores of airline miles and hotel points that worked well with a Vieques/San Juan itinerary, and we found other suitable accommodations that kept the destination within our post-pharmaceutical-industry-heyday- double-dip-recession- hey-we-really-should-pay-our-teachers-more budget. Plus, we’re both avid* swimmers, and one of the highlights of my first trip to Vieques was all the glorious open water swimming I was able to do. Every day brought a different beach, each ideal for long swims in calm, clear, warm, mostly relatively shallow water. Perfect for a closeted open water wimp like me, who were it not for the funds already invested and the people waiting at the other end would likely chicken out of every open water race I’ve ever put myself through. And so because this was a known entity about Vieques, and because this is something we both sought as a major priority in our final destination, the deal was sealed. Tickets were booked, arrangements made. Puerto Rico or bust.

Meanwhile, and in fact long before all this vacation planning ever took place, I had kinda gotten a little hooked on this motivational program at the pool. Last January some non-swimmer gym employee had launched a “Swim 100 Miles in 100 Days” thing with the intent of luring folks into a social contract to essentially swim from Baltimore to Philadelphia in a pretty tight time frame in exchange for a t-shirt. The program was super legit with a binder that held everyone’s records and a laminated poster where you could mark your milage for all to see. Good times!

I think three, maybe four, people actually made it to Philly by Day 100. T may have been one of them. Gym Motivational Program Original Intention: Fail.

After the 100 days passed, however, many people, myself included, continued to track their milage. And as the year started to round third base, Thanksgiving coming and going, I, Khop, lover of round numbers, neat edges and right angles, realized that while I came nowhere close to 100 miles in 100 days, I just might be able to finish 2010 with 200 miles.

Oh my was the thought intoxicating. Two hundred. Such a lovely round number, so full of zeros and divisibles. How satisfying would it be to see the entire second row next to my name on the laminated poster filled with marker?

Sigh.

At this juncture I was near the 180-mile mark and thus would have to pick it up quite a bit. The only point in the year when my monthly milage was at or above twenty was whilst training for this, and I am currently in love with and putting significant time into this. But with some effort and motivation, I felt it was well within my grasp. Especially as yet again, I have found myself in December with plenty of time on my hands.

In thinking this through, counting how many days in December I would be in town and assessing how attainable this round number actually was, I came to one distinct conclusion, which was that I did not want to leave a significant portion of this milage to do during my much-awaited trip to paradise. Sure, I wanted to swim while I was there, but I didn’t want to have to swim, to feel obligated to some internal, unimportant-to-every-other-person-and-thing-on-the-planet goal. After all, the words “obligated” and “vacation” are completely irrelevant to one another, and should rarely, if ever, find themselves in the same sentence. No problem, as I am older, I am wiser, and I have found it possible, on occasion, to make a deadline without bringing it right down to the very last nanosecond.

I’ve totally got this.

Or so I thought, until over the next 24 days the angel of motivation and the devil of my TV remote waged a war, and I found myself boarding the plane to Vieques with only twelve miles swam and eight yet to go.

Weak, khop. So pitifully weak.

Well, I reasoned, I am spending four days in Vieques with Mr. Swim, himself. This is exactly what I did not want to do to myself, but two miles per day isn’t entirely out of the question. We’ll see what happens; all is not lost.

Unfortunately, over the course of those four days daylight, weather, a touch of vacation laziness and a healthy dose of the aforementioned open water wimpiness mixed up a cocktail that led to a pathetic performance. Allow me to recount:

Day One: Mosquito Pier - gorgeous two mile round trip swim full of starfish, sea turtles and easy sighting on the pier on one side, land on the other. We left it too late in the day and only had time to clock 1.5 miles. No problem, three days left.

Day Two: Blue Beach. Utter vacation laziness. Zero energy due to a bender someone had with a few locals the night before. Moderate depression upon getting tricked into reading The Worst Vacation Book, no scratch that, Generally Speaking The Worst Book Ever Written. Zero miles clocked. Uh oh.

Day Three: Horrific rainy weather. Just terrible. Investigated Mosquito Pier, surf deemed rough. Sun Bay, sand churned up, water gross. Green beach, 0.5 nervous miles clocked. Crap.

Day Four: Beautiful weather. Awoke with insane ambitions of nonstop swimming - 6 miles, no problemo! Except, problem. Sand and seaweed still churned up and unpleasant at Mosquito Pier. Underwater visibility, nil. T officially declares avid hatred for the words “Mosquito” and Pier”. It is dead to him, he mutters. Similar findings in Sun Bay. Cannot be bothered to trudge around rest of island to inspect other beaches in pursuit of now unattainable, bullshit goal. Full mental release from said goal and accompanying euphoria. Sunset swim to and from the island off the coast of Esperanza, 0.5 miles clocked.

Overall, four days in paradise, 2.5 dismal miles swam.

Meh.... whatcha gonna do?

T, also disappointed with the odometer reading, got to clicking away on the interwebs to see what possibilities, if any, existed for our time in San Juan. I don’t think either of us expected to find much, and sure enough, the surf’s too rough for anything open water. But a viable option surfaced - the world-class, internationally renowned San Juan Natatorium.

Ooh la la!

Luckily my travel companion was one who also gets pretty geeked at the thought of taking a lap or two in what the folks over at Wikipedia site as "the most advanced natatorium in the Caribbean and 4th in the entire world", and I was suddenly back in business with a chance at hitting the big two - oh - oh.

And thus, over the next two days, whilst sharing the pool with these fine gentlemen, I got several hours of my Puerto Rican vitamin D whilst ticking off the remaining 5.5 miles. 195.... 196.....197..... and finally, with roughly 13 hours left in the year.... 200!

Hit that goal with time to spare. Time to spare I tell you!

Truthfully, besides keeping count, many of those laps were spent wondering why I do these things to myself. After all, this scenario is not new. How many times have I set a goal and then neglected to steadily work on it while the stakes are low? When time is plentiful, motivation is not. Love of TV and sleep and the creation of fake Facebook accounts take much higher priority, and instead of being the Little Engine That Could, chugging steadily up the mountain, I take inspiration from my obese cat.

That is, until the deadline is eminent. Suddenly, attaining said goal has everything to do with my own self-worth, and the thought of missing the mark fills my head with terms like "washed up", "failure", "post-peek" and similar. I recall past achievements and worry that the drive and resolve that did it for me then is forever gone. No matter how insignificant the goal at hand, suddenly failure to achieve it symbolizes a permanent slide into mediocrity.

And your 30's is just too damn early to suck, you know?

Here's how this typically turns out: a herculean push, a flood of activity, a veritable fire drill - and more often then not, a goal attained. Happy ending, hit-me-in-the-face-with-a-frying-pan-ugly process.

January 2nd is a perfect time for goal-setting. I have to think that in 2011 I can do a little better. Not by taking the 200 up to 300, but by needlessly stressing fewer years of my life away. For once. Over the course of the next 365 days, I promise myself and my loved ones at least one less fire drill. Now that is daunting.

Crossing my fingers and diving in,

khop

* allow me to clarify the term “avid”. I love it, but am slow as the day is long. T loves it and is good at it.

Every time I think I've got an ounce of maturity....

.... I go ahead and prove myself wrong. Oh so wrong.

Care to hear how?

When I was a wee lass, boy did I love me some Barbie. For serious, she was my homegirl. Between Rocker Barbie, Prom Barbie, Lifeguard Barbie, not to mention the piles of Barbies inherited from my two older sisters, our house had no shortage of six inch-tall plastic dolls. The clothes I had for my Barbies outnumber the clothes I have for myself now, and the accessories didn't stop there. Barbie owned a tricked-out convertible and a sweet vacation camper, not to mention a dream house with a pony tied up out back.

Yep, Barbie had everything money could buy.....but sadly no one to share it with, as I could never convince my parents to let me introduce Ken into the mix. My powers of persuasion having not yet matured into what they are today were no match for what I now realize must have been their fear of walking into the playroom and finding this or similar:

(btw, a Google Images search for "Barbie and Ken bad" is not for the faint of heart. Just sayin', people out there are gross.)

Anyway, years of my childhood were spent in our basement playroom, fixing Barbie's hair and changing her clothes. Rearranging furniture in the dream house or going for a ride on the Barbie pony. Putting in long hours at the office and then coming home and cooking up a feast. As the sacred aria goes, I truly was a Barbie girl, living in a Barbie world.

And aside from the Career Barbie I still have* packed away in a shoebox in my office closet, I thought I had put that phase of life behind me. After all, I am in my thirties. I am a home owner and a triathlete. I do things like vote and pay taxes and wax poetic about wine. I routinely monitor my stock portfolio and 401(k). For God's sake, I host an annual Soup Swap. Clearly, I have matured.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Unfortunately, there is oftentimes ample evidence to the contrary. Case in point:

Last Sunday found Tim** and I sitting on my sofa, leisurely puttering away on individual tasks, Sunday football playing in the background. At one point the scene going down on my laptop caught Tim's eye, and he asked what I was doing. I warned him that what I was about to share would be slightly horrifying and then let him know that I was creating a new Google email account to pair up with the new fake Facebook account I was about to make. See, there's been a friendly little wager going on over here in Charm City, and I needed something of a Trojan Horse to gather potential evidence of a victory. I was quick to defend myself by pointing out that someone who is willing to accept a friend request on Facebook from a complete stranger clearly does not value his or her privacy very much.

I had no additional defense, aside from my sheer shamelessness.

As promised, Tim was horrified.........at first.

I proceeded to let him know that there was room for him in this covert operation. After all, my new alter-ego (let's call him Ken to protect the integrity of the bit) needed to look legit, and for that to happen, he needed a few friends to kick things off. Cut to Tim, typing away, creating his Barbie's entire elaborate life story, including how she went from growing up in Illinois to landing spinning instructor-by-day, Appleby's hostess-by night gigs in Fayetteville, NC. She also quickly "liked" the fact that my Ken was listed as single.

Dr. Shazam, easily accessible via gChat, was also dispatched, and within hours another Ken doll showed up to play. With an impressive opening bid, too, commenting on my Ken's wall, "ur pecs are killin it bro. I gotta amp up my bench press lol".

In subsequent days, my Ken doll has made several additional friends, a mixture of real people I actually know, seeking to spectate this amusement first hand, and utter strangers belonging to this vast parallel society where befriending and allowing someone you've never met have access to a whole lotta personal information is considered completely normal. Preferable, actually, as this is a crowd with a higher than average per capita of fake boobs, fake tans, fake hair color and fake muscles, and I suppose the rationale is that if I'm gonna spend all this money to look like an actual Barbie doll, I'd like as many people as possible to see me. The two targets of the original wager fall firmly into the latter category.

The creepy origins of this endeavor have quickly become a fringe benefit to what has largely become an indulgent game of make-believe, very reminiscent of my games of Barbie, all those months years ago. I get to make up everything about my virtual Ken doll, where he's from, what he does, "what's on his mind" and how he interacts with the others. With a quick search on Google Images, I can even change his appearance. The sky is the limit.

Thus far I've pinpointed two reasons why I've found playing with Facebook Ken a particularly addictive pass time. First, unlike fantasy role-playing type games like Sims or Dungeons and Dragons, this is playing make-believe in the real world. With people who aren't always in on the joke. And whether I'm interacting with them or others who are in the know, that fact makes this all highly amusing. And to be honest I'm not entirely sure why.

Second, in order for the original scam to work, this particular Trojan Horse needed to resemble these guys as much as possible. Therefore, there is a huge amount of misbehaving that I now get to do on Facebook that I would never in a million years do under my own name, like speaking exclusively in "text", purposefully misspelling, and grossly overusing "lol" and "lmao". Of course, Dr. Shazam has me beat at every single turn, consistently taking it up a notch with status updates such as, "t minus 2 days until miley cyrus turns 18. happy thanksgiving to me lol"

Go ahead. Snigger. Pass judgement. I'm secure enough not to be bothered. Plus, I know you want to join in. I know you do.....

Wondering what Ken's up to,

Khop

* Um, btw, Career Barbie is legit. She talks and has a laptop and a monogrammed travel coffee mug and a briefcase full of money and her suit skirt flips inside out to a party skirt. I think. But I really can't remember since it's been so long....

** The reason why I have been devoid of internet dating writing material, in case you were wondering.... great for me, but devastating for the blog. Meh, screw the blog.

Reason #26 Why Dating is Rough: "I've come all this way....."

Parking in my neighborhood is a tricky thing, because like most cities there are more cars than spots to hold them. As such I try to avoid using my car after 8PM like nobody’s business. If I can’t scam a ride off someone, my attendance is questionable. Seriously, it’s just kind of the way it is. I think most people I know have grown to accept this, and if there are those out there who at all troubled by the fact that I am essentially choosing an eight foot section of gravel over their company, they hide it fabulously.

Sometimes, though, circumstances of life demand that I fire up the ole Mariner after the sun has set and take her for a spin. The other night was one of those nights, and I must say it was well worth it.

A friend needed a ride home from the airport after arriving from what was supposed to have been one big out of town booty call of a weekend. A few days prior I had left him at the terminal in full supply of optimism and prophylactics, and now I was picking him up ready to hear all the sordid details. Unfortunately, though, the weekend did not go exactly according to plan, and what got into my car that evening was one unopened box of family planning aids and one frustrated hot mess of a grouch.

Oooo, snap.

What happened?? It had seemed like a slam dunk!

Turns out the weekend had been ripe with weather delays, hangovers, a car accident, you name it, it happened. However, these were not the things that stopped our hero. No, no, these were mere details that certainly poured salt in the wound, but fender benders alone would not have proven a strong enough deterrent. What did? Well, as my weary traveler explained, it had been several years since he’d last seen this girl in person, and, well, the Facebook photos in retrospect had clearly been strategically chosen. In short, she was not nearly as asthetically pleasing as he recalled her being. Not even close. As a matter of fact, kind of the opposite. To make matters worse apparently there was quite a bit of baby talking to the four, count 'em, four cats going on. And all that with a three-pack-a-day voice.

Verdict? No bueno. No bueno, indeed. He couldn’t bring himself to lay a finger on her.

When I asked our protagonist if he couldn’t have pressed forward, if he couldn’t have just closed his eyes, strapped on some beer goggles, made a wish and gone for it, he responded, with deep regret, no. No, he could not. He’d thought about it quite a bit, and the conclusion he’d come to was that if circumstances were different, if he’d been able to do the 3AM dash, he could have powered through. But being that he was a two night houseguest with hockey games, museum visits and all kinds of other activities planned for the cold, harsh light of day, there was just no way.

To hear him relay the tale with all the details was hilarious, but I must admit, I was a little depressed for him. After all, the whole thing seemed like such a waste - of time, of energy, of money and anticipation. He’d traveled all that way for nothing. It must have really been, how shall I put this, a nightmare of a bad scene. (Ok, programming note: You know what? I’ve tried desperately hard to not use the word ugly or any synonym thereof for fear of karmic retribution. But, quite frankly I just cannot muster the energy to word-smith this anymore. You get the jist – according to my friend, our girl was ugly. There. I’ve said it.) But it begged a question – much like Barney Stinson’s famed “Hot/Crazy Scale”, wherein a girl must be at least as hot as she is crazy in order to be a viable prospect, is there an Ugly/Distance Scale? As in, “I’ve traveled X far, I don’t care that she’s Y ugly, I’m gonna hit this”? There’s a term for this in psychology called Escalation of Commitment, which is defined as “increased investment in a decision, based on the cumulative prior investment, despite new evidence suggesting that the decision was probably wrong.” It’s sometimes what’s going on when a long term couple persists in staying together, despite obvious incompatibilities. They aren’t ready to admit that the time invested may have been a mistake, and as more time passes, they become more determined to prove themselves correct. Clearly in this case, the distance traveled was not far enough warrant, ah-hem, increased investment, but suppose my friend had hopped on a plane and flown to Chicago? Denver? L.A.? At what point might he have said, “Aw hell. I might as well get my airfare’s worth….”

I posed this question to a neighbor who without even thinking debunked my theory by denying such a scale would exist. “Under no set of circumstances,” he firmly stated, “would I allow that to happen. I’d leave, find some other girl, then get on the plane to come home.”

Fair enough.

Desperately hoping I’m on the right side of both scales,

khop

Travel Woes I Brought On Myself.

I used to be a frequent traveler. In fact I used to write about my adventures quite a bit. The toilets at Philadelphia International Airport, almost being left behind in Richmond, etc, etc, etc, more writing material than all the dating websites in the world combined!

But that life is no longer mine. These days, I work in the same metropolitan area where I live. Hallelujah, the office with my name on the door is not several states away, and I no longer spend weeks on end hopping from city to city in the name of God and Corporate America. Furthermore, it seems I have finally gotten over this absurd habit I used to have of choosing to date men that live in different states or different countries. Nowadays, if you want to date me, you gotta live near me, because, no, I’m not gonna come visit. As such, my Gold frequent flyer status has expired, and despite all our deep and meaningful chats, the ladies at the Raleigh, NC US Airways Club have probably long since forgotten me. I lay my head down on the same pillow night after night after night and never ever have to call down to the front desk anymore to request a different room because, “I’m sorry, but this one smells real funny, like something died in the walls or something....”

All is so very well in my world. Really, I could not be more thrilled.

And just to remind me of that, just to give me a dose of appreciation for all that my current life is and all that it is certainly not, today Jesus sent me Snaggle-Tooth Old Hag and her band of cronies at Delta.

Thanks, buddy. Good times. Way to be my homeboy.

I write this to you from the terminal at BWI, and as my fingers type this sentence the time is two hours past when I should have arrived in Atlanta to visit dear friend Beth, and soon-to-be dear friend Johnna. Who knows when I will arrive. I’m starting to think never. It’s all good, I can hang. And although I will go to my grave blaming Snaggle Tooth Old Hag (STOH or Delta Demon 1/ DD1), The Lady Who Would Not Help (TLWWNH, Delta Demon 2/DD2), and Supervisor Who Will Burn In Hell (SWWBIH, Delta Demon 3/DD3), I am cognizant that they have the ironclad defense that I brought this on myself. Yeah, yeah, I know I did. Y’all got me good.

BUT COME ON!!!!

Ok, let me back up several hours. Being an enthusiastic user of modern technology, I checked in for my flight online this morning. In the midst of zooming around town, I hooked me up to dem interwebs, plugged in a confirmation number, selected a seat, check, check, check. What I could not do, and which proved to be my downfall, was print the boarding pass, as a few months ago one of Charm City’s finest stole my printer out of my car (another story). Now, I am well aware that all passengers must be checked in thirty minutes prior to take off; however, am I the only one on the planet to realize that they will not print a boarding pass for you after this unshakeable deadline passes? In all the years of constant air travel, for all the flights I have cut as close as humanly possible, maintaining my perfect record of never missing a single departure, I have never been faced with this truth. I have always either arrived more than 30 minutes prior to departure, or failing that, had in my possession a piece of paper granting me entry onto the plane. Today was different. Today, I walked up to ticketing literally 29 minutes prior to departure, with no paper in hand. And instead of giving it to me, upon my well-mannered, WASPY request, the kiosk rudely turned me away, insisting I see a live agent. Enter STOH/DD1 stage left, as she strutted around, manning the kiosks, chewing on cud and spreading evil. I shall slip into dialogue for ease of storytelling:

Khop, mock helplessness: The kiosk told me to see an agent. Can you help?

DD1: Oh absolutely not. You need to get in line.

Khop: That line over there? But my flight is due to begin boarding very soon. Is there any way you can help? (Beaming hopeful, kiss-ass smile that usually works. Shit - usually works on men. She is not a man. Or is she? Clearly not, because....)

DD1: Oh that’s why it won’t print - because you’re too late. Yeah, BWAHAHAHAHA, you’re not going anywhere, anytime soon, so you might as well get in line. HA!

At this point, she actually turned, showed me her rear end and walked away.

BITCH!

Not to be defeated, I turned that smile on the meek little asian man standing in the front of the line. Damnit if I’ve still got it, ‘cos dude let me cut. Alright, back in business!

Not quite. I proceeded to wait at the front of the line for a full 16 minutes, and as every minute ticked passed, my concern notched a bit higher. I went from a state of complete confidence, to intellectually curious (after all, this may be a new record for me), to actual panic. Every time the agents would finish with the people they were helping, instead of beckoning to me to step forward into the light and receive blessing, they would disappear. Coffee break, lunch break, crack break, help khop break, whatevs. No room at the inn.

If you’ve done the math, you’ll note that by the time I was called forward, it was a mere 12 minutes before my flight was scheduled to leave, and I was told, this time by DD2, that I was out of luck. But I was determined to go down fighting, after all, I had ladies to see and some a’visiting to do. Dialogue, once again:

(T minus 11m55s) Khop: Are there any exceptions to this rule I’ve never heard of?

(T minus 11m45s) Stoned-faced DD2: No.

(T minus 11m44s) Khop: None at all?

(T minus 11m30s) SFDD2: You’d have to talk to a supervisor.

(T minus 11m29s) Khop: Where is one?

(T minus 11m10s) SFDD2, pointing stubby, unhelpful finger of hate: Down there.

(BTW, are you grasping how slow this conversation is moving, tick, tock, tick, tock...)

(T minus 11m9s) Khop: Helping that long line of people?

(T minus 10m52s) SFDD2: Yes.

(T minus 10min51s) Khop: If I go over there, will she help me next?

(T minus 10 min 35s) SFDD2: Probably not.

(T minus 10 min 34s) Khop: Can you ask her to come over here?

(T minus 10 min) SFDD2: Fine.

Enter the third in our cast of characters, DD3, who once she found out that I had arrived at the airport a full twenty minutes ago, when something very well could have been done to get me on that flight, did at least feign sympathy and support, calling the gate to see where they were in boarding, typing in the code that over rides this whole 30 minute baloney, even going so far as to call DD1 over to “coach” her to handle the situation differently next time. The flow of support ended abruptly, though, when she spotted her ace in the hole. She looked down at my bag and deemed it too large to carry on. Now reader(s), we have all seen many who abuse the carry on allowance. Travelers who carry coffin-sized roller bags onto the plane, take three rows worth of space in the overhead bin and feign surprise when the flight attendant objects. And even though this entire post is recounting my attempt to buck the system, I can assure you, this was one area where I was playing by the rules- the size of this roller bag was legit (emphasis was). So in receiving the news that my beautiful Samsonite “Business Traveler’s Elite” roller bag, the bag that has served as my faithful sidekick for six years, the bag that has flown all over the country in the overhead bin without so much as one raised eyebrow, was now apparently one inch too long to qualify as a carry on and would have to be checked, my jaw dropped and my eyes teared. Parting with that bag was like the moment in Castaway where that blessed volleyball floats out of Tom Hanks‘ grasp. It was so sad. Plus, it meant that I had lost. Definitively.

And DD2 knew it too. She beamed a smile that could be seen from space, re-ticketed me for a later flight and snatched that bag out of my hands before you could say “disgruntled union employee”. As a courtesy nod to my inconvenience, the supervisor waved the baggage fee. Awesome of her, don’t you think?

It was because of that checked bag that all of my remaining methods of maneuvering the situation disappeared into thin air. When 15 seconds later, while I was still in the midst of being re-ticketed, the flight board showed my flight delayed 30 minutes, I was out of luck. When I got to my gate and watched my original flight sit and sit and sit for two hours, pushing all subsequent flights back as well, I was still out of luck. When I tried to go standby on the next departing flight (still earlier than the one for which I had been rebooked), out of luck I remained.

All in all, the final equation looked something like this:

One printer-stealing hobo + one minute too late + one inch too tall rollerboard

=

One Sad Panda Air Traveler.

I know my mother is reading this shaking her head. And maybe you are, too. So allow me to reiterate that I am cognizant that I brought this on myself. If I had left earlier, if I had arrived sooner, none of this would have happened. In fact, I probably would’ve been able to sneak that one-inch-too-tall rollerboard on the plane, all Delta employees none the wiser. But I didn’t - I was late, and that’s that. But the real kick in the crotch of it all, the piece that was so mind numbingly infuriating was how much joy DD1 and DD2 took in the fact that I screwed myself and how little they cared to disguise that joy. They were right, and I was wrong. And my mistake gave them a blank check to be as unhelpful and dismissive as they wanted. As one who’s profession is sales, who is paid to take a beating day in and day out, looking for something, anything that will make my customers happy, this came as a sucker punch. I have had customers tell me they hate the food I brought them for lunch, as they are stuffing it in their pie hole. I have had customers tell me in all sincerity that their version of Utopia is a world where sales representatives do not exist. I have had customers lie to me, be mean to me, throw me under the bus, and literally swat at me with a fly swatter. And yet I smile, climb out from under that bus, and ask them what, pray tell, type of sandwich I should bring next time. Or similar. So when it’s my turn to be the paying customer, and I’m in a jam, and the people I’m stuck with can’t even muster up the effort that day to pretend to care, I’m left feeling sad. And a little bit like kicking a small animal.

I’ve heard horror stories about what those in the air travel industry must endure from my fellow passengers, so I get that there exists the possibility that DD1 and DD2 are lovely women who go to church every Sunday, make better-than-average bundt cakes, and tip the manicure lady well. I get it that their wickedness may be a product of too many years and too many run-ins with too many jerks. But it’s a total chicken/egg thing. Maybe I wouldn’t be such a jerk if you would help me. Maybe you would help me if I weren’t such a jerk.

I know, I know - I could fry the chicken and scramble the egg if I’d shown up just one damn minute earlier.

How tiring.

Have I mentioned how glad I am to no longer be a frequent air traveler?

Flying the unfriendly skies,

khop