brunette

Social Graces of the Sky

Photo by Ian Burt

Photo by Ian Burt

Picture if you will a hectic afternoon of changing flights. We’ve all been there. Playing airline tag is a necessary evil in the game of speedy commute. The goal of an airport is to herd sardi-…I mean, “patrons” to the correct winged can. Then they launch said can into the elements to bump and jostle until the final destination is reached. It’s a tedious, long, frustrating, and overall uncomfortable experience. One of the few joys – for a solitary male, anyway – is sitting next to attractive girl.

In this, I have the worst luck. I pray to whatever lust demon happens to be in charge of such matters, but almost every time I get stuck with the “just-shy-of-too-obese-for-the-plane” guy or the twitchy woman with a horse’s maw.  I wasn’t particularly thrilled about the flight I was getting on. It was a departure from Billings, Montana with a changeover in Seattle, Washington. I love me some Montanan women, but they’re not the ones sardine-ing themselves on Horizon flights.

I found myself in Billings waiting for the clock to chime with the load-up warning. Also in the waiting was a rather striking fortysomething gal who had “BikerMomma” written all over her – auburn hair, square jaw. The epitome of badass beauty. If it weren’t for clothing in the way, I would’ve guessed she was adorned with tattoos.

There were a few other scattered specimens waiting for the flying bucket to board; a couple of blondes, a college girl or two. Things were looking up this flight. The time came to crowd onto the metallic seagull before I could muse on it any further.

My side of the row was a two-seater – one aisle, one window – mine was the aisle. Two rows behind me was BikerMomma occupying a window seat all by her lonesome. Damn, there went that imaginary opportunity. All I could do was sit, wait, and see if my fellow occupant was of the aesthetically pleasing variety.

The first person on was a rather sweaty mouth-breather of a business man. The second, some corpulent “thing” that I couldn’t discern a gender for. Fifth through tenth? Nothing. Fifteenth? Cute brunette, four aisles up. Damn! The suspense was killing me. Then came a platinum, bottle blonde girl in a pink ski coat. Jackpot!…I hoped.

“‘Scuse me,” she said in the cutest, squeakiest voice ever.

I got up to let her through, all the while trying to contain my elation. The feeling didn’t last long, however. Someone tapped my shoulder soon after PinkCoatGirl sat. I could’ve groaned.

“Yes?” I said tightly.

A somewhat hippie-ish man with week-old facial scruff said, “Hey, I was wondering if you and I could switch seats. You see, my dad is over there.” He pointed to an older gent in the aisle seat on the other side of me. “I really want to sit next to him.”

Crap. I had to think a moment. Do I do the right thing here? What is the right thing to do? How often do I get to sit next to a hot chick? Never?! Would it really matter to him if he was close to his dad? What, was his dad senile or something? He looked fine to me.

As all these questions played ping-pong in my brainpan, the PinkCoatGirl was looking at me intently. HippieSon also awaited my answer. His father…was staring blankly at the fold-out table.

I shook my head, “No…sorry.”

Dejected, HippieSon said, “That’s alright.”

“I’ll switch with you,” chimed a young-ish guy in the window seat next to HippieSon’s pop.

“Great, thanks!”

I looked to see where HippieSon had been sitting; it was the aisle seat next to BikerMomma.

For the rest of the flight, the PinkCoatGirl never said more than five words to me. And those five were extracted with great difficulty. All the while, two aisles back, the young-ish guy and BikerMomma were flirting and laughing the entire flight. What did I learn?

Biker chicks are awesome. Blondes in ski coats don’t talk much. Never get between the bond of father and son. And always fly Horizon; they serve good beer.

So, fellas, what would you have done differently?

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Monday, November 15th, 2010 Musings 6 Comments

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