I live in Manhattan where talking to strangers is generally a sign of mental illness. However, one fine day back in December in the Houston airport, when a tall, handsome man in uniform (airline uniform, that is) plopped down next to me on the pleather bench in the gate area, I let my guard down a little bit.
He was accompanied by a stewardess. I was secretly plotting to be upgraded to first class thanks to my witty repartee with the two of them. I was making headway, and quite frankly, I was also exhausted, when the professional discussion began. I commented on the demeanor of today's airline passengers, after all, I no longer enjoy my bi-weekly cattle drive at LaGuardia. And then, I went a bit too far when I told my pals I did not know how they put up with passengers' crap.
A moment or two later I realized that I had just insulted the pilot.
Whoops.
Needless to say, when we crossed paths in the Richmond airport yesterday, I pretended like I had never seen him before.
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