It’s not normal how often I think about airports. I could map out nearly every major life event to an airport terminal. It’s likely why that opening scene in Love Actually makes me cry. This past weekend, I had the delightful privilege of picking up one of my co-bloggers and dear friends from the airport. I was a little early and had forgotten a book, so I read people instead.
It’s not often that I’m waiting in arrivals; I’m usually arriving and rather delirious. But on Friday, I was mesmerized. I could nearly hear the butterflies in his stomach, as the guy with the crooked tie smoothed his hair and paced around, clutching a rose so hard that I expected to see blood. Beside him, a woman’s face lit up with a delight often exclusive to shampoo commercials as she ran toward her mini-me. The girl nearly melted into her mother’s arms. One couple made out the entire 40 minutes I was there. My lips were chapped on their behalf. Another looked as though they’d been custom-built for each other. I stared a little too long. Everyone had a warm glow, as if to say, I’m loved, I’m wanted, I matter. Except the businessmen. Theirs was a more fluorescent glow – I matter, where’s my driver.
The longer I watched people’s interactions, the less frenzied my thoughts seemed. My week had been filled with cognitive dissonance and watching the micro-expressions of pure joy calmed the clusterfuck in my head. So there I was – headphones, mane, goofy grin – coming to the same fortune cookie realizations I revisit every few months. People matter. Be more open. Call your uncle. Write something you’re not paid to write.
So here it is. After a four month hiatus, we’re back. We all needed a stimulant to snap us out of the drudgery. And what better drug than love, actually.