Today has been loooong. My brain had the better of me so I couldn’t sleep. I left for the airport at 5AM and was overly caffeinated to the point I thought I was having a heart attack. After my flight was cancelled I rebooked and headed home to the Chap, looking for a cuddle but only finding a snore. I’m back to the airport six hours later, happier, 3 coffees deep, the Chap assuring me I was not having said heart attack and a glass of wine to calm all nerves in the dead airport that is Labor Day Saturday. Remind me to book a vacation this afternoon next year. No one is flying. No one!

My seat mate is the cool girl I picked out at the gate to be my best friend. Once I did this with a guy. I was in line for coffee behind him at a Burger King in Miami. He was being hilarious with his friend. I thought, isn’t this guy great. I thought the same thing as we were seat mates and rewrote the Jodie Foster movie Flightplan over the next two hours. As we went on our first date, I knew he was not for me. Our second date occurred because I had to give him back the sweatshirt he lent me in the monsoon of our first date. Turns out a Jodie Foster and a mutual obsession of Law and Order doesn’t make for much. We recognise this, remain friends and I realise he might have had a super model gf the whole time. Awful.

So today I’ve picked my lady best friend out of a crowd. I’ve had a long week, wearing a grandma sweater and look a mess. My lady crush has killer shoes, a great but comfy dress and what much surely must be a cool as hell (giant as hell) vintage engagement ring. I love her in a I need to be besties with you way. I don’t know how to express this. I have a few friends, but they are GOOD friends. Quality over quantity. How to express this to my seat mate…. My Vogue occupied the middle seat as an olive branch of cool girl….

Bad betches don’t small talk… So we didn’t. Shame. Instead I focused my efforts on the 70 something couple in front of me,  perhaps the cutest ever. I think I’ve decided they’re German. The man looks like my Polish grandfather with his exaggerated features and sink hole pores. He wears a “Hawaii” hat and Wranglers, only not the normal Brett Favre wranglers… These are khaki Wranglers and they are polyester not denim and they must be comfy as fuck because I’ve already decided he and his wife (who is adorable) are  off on a South American adventure

The wife is the cutest.  She has on those awful cargo pants pants. Like she could be flying 12 hours now or she could hike a mountain now, girl doesn’t give a fuck. Also, she’s rocking this “blazer” that’s really a sweatshirt. Is she too comfortable to hold a diplomacy meeting? I don’t know and I don’t want to find out. She’s probably carrying $10k in cash or whatever the limit is, yet it’s in a nylon “Switzerland” backpack. You could slice it with a butter knife. The cheesy floral logo reminds me of my favourite “Switzerland!” Fleece jacket. The bestie insisted I buy it when I insisted I was going to head to the top of a glacier in J.Crew tissue weight cashmere and ballet flats. She’s so smart, a true talisman even though she was too hungover to accompany me. Love.

Anyway, the Germans are too cute. In line to board the plane, wifey too loudly asks if hubs wants to read one of her books. He says no. He doesn’t want to read. He looks so so sad. He says he can’t read. They both break out into cheeky grins. I love them. Can I have this funny, not really funny, inside joke kind of love on the way to what I’ve decided is Macchu Picchu. Please and thank you.