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So instead, I’ll be saying “sorry” a million times while wishing the ground would swallow me up.
I don’t believe in throwing salt over my shoulder, or that breaking mirrors brings bad luck. If a black cat crosses my path, my only instinct is to pet it. But if I were a woman of superstition, I would say that the universemightbe trying to tell me that relocating back to Atlanta is another mistake.
It’s not, though. Iknow,in my bones, it’s not. It’s my chance for a fresh start.
The slow-clapper is still—a tad unbelievably—slow-clapping, and I almost stop and deliver my inspirational internal pep-talk aloud. But then, I remember that I’m a bathroom-hider who’s about to move back in with her parents (a situation that will inevitably prompt my mother to invite every single male from her church between the ages of twenty and forty for dinner to present to me as a “prospect”).
My mother seems to believe that if I simply married myself off, I’d be substantially happier.
I beg to differ.
As much as I love my mom, I don’t think she can possibly understand what happened. Dad was her first love—they’ve been together since high school and she never wanted anything or anyone else. I, on the other hand, may know nothing of childhood sweethearts, but I did recently learn a valuable lesson about why you should never, ever get involved with someone you work with.
“Come on now, put a spring in your step!” The impatient flight attendant shoos me along to my seat. Which is, of course, all the way at the back of the plane. In the middle of a row.
By the time I’ve finished my catwalk of shame—and, horrifyingly, had to ask the elderly lady with bad hips in the aisle seat to let me by—the last thing I need is for my other seatmate to hate me.
“Oof,” I say to the man in the window seat, adopting what I hope is a charming, jovial tone. “Bad day for a squirrel to break into your car. That leather upholstery will never be the same again.”
I don’t know why I say this. Nobody asked.
It’s like that meme. You know, the one that’s like “Nobody:” and then a picture of someone saying something really dumb.
I am a living embodiment of that meme.
But it’s a real story, even if it’s not mine. It happened to my ex-coworker Larry once. He had to get a rabies shot and a course of antibiotics. Those welts didn’t fade for weeks. Now, it’s my go-to excuse for my habitual tardiness, which is something I cannot seem to shake no matter how many books I’ve read about being “highly effective.”
This time, my being late wasn’t my fault though. I had no other choice but to hide in the bathroom until the last possible moment. You would, too, if you thought you saw your ex and his new wifey.
Sounds stupid to say aloud, obviously. So I’m sticking with the squirrel story.
Which, upon some light reflection, may sound equally stupid.
However, the man next to me doesn’t react. Doesn’t even seem to register I’m here.
I can’t see what he looks like as he’s fully shielded behind the massive Wall Street Journal he’s wielding. But if his body language is anything to go by, he’spissed. The knuckles on his big hands are white as he grasps the paper, and he’s practically radiating tense energy.
I sit back in my seat, but can’t resist peeking over to try and get a glimpse of his side profile. I’m guessing he looks like a cross between an angry Squidward and Mr. Burns fromThe Simpsons.
I catch a glimpse of his profile and my breath catches.
Boy, my instincts were off.
It’s not much, but it’s enough to know that the angle of that stubbled jawline screams movie-star-hotness.
He finally seems to register me—well, register my stare—and he moves his paper to fully hide his face. I swear his nose wrinkles as he does so.
Good lord, to top it all off, do Ismellbad?
As surreptitiously as possible, I pretend to adjust my seatbelt while taking a little sniff of my underarm. A little sweaty, maybe, but I still detect deodorant. Nothing gross.
Maybe he’s one of those super-smellers that can detect a scent the rest of us can’t. Kinda like a bomb-sniffing dog. Or one of those people who smell cow farts for a living to see if they’re eating a good diet (it’s a real thing, look it up).
Either way, who is this dude to make me feel self-conscious without even a single glance in my direction? Just because his crisp, white dress shirt has zero sweat stains under the pits, and he smells like what I’d imagine a sexy pine forest would smell like, it doesn’t mean he needs to make me feel like a greaseball.
“You okay, dearie?” the elderly lady on my left asks in a thick Boston accent. “Crick in your neck?”
“Fine, thank you.” I lift my head out of armpit-sniffing territory and shoot her a smile.Bless her heart.“Sorry, again, for making you get up.”
