Boots, high heels, boots, boots, slippers?, sandals, boots, boots.
Leggings, jeans, leggings, leggings, skirt, legging, jeans, leather pants, track pants, leggings.
Blonde, blonde, red, brown, black, red, blonde, platinum, red, brown, grey, grey.
Big butt, bigger butt, flat butt, nice one, big saggy butt, little flat butt, nice again, good round butt.
Alone, alone, couple, couple, couple…
Sitting in the airport I like to count and compare, one moment smiles, the next hair color, kids or no kids, couples or singles, it passes the time and occupies my obsessive side.
I’m back in the airport again, travel is not a big part of my job, but I do spend a few weeks a month traveling and about half that on planes.
As the boarding process begins I realize that I’m not wishing the plane will crash. That is a new twist.
Sunk deep in depression I’ve always said to myself at the moment in the trip that it would be great to just have it end in a fiery crash, out of my hands, breaking the bonds to a messy life and into peace.
I remember a day long ago when Mr. P was still perfectly content I would always say a little prayer that I would arrive safely at my destination. But that was before my fall.
After, I would often wish the opposite.
Not only when flying, but anytime I found myself alone with my thoughts, my accuser, judge and jury. Driving down the road, I would wonder, “If I hit the overpass column this fast would I die or just end up disabled?” The only thing keeping my course was the thought of those left behind having to deal with it. But that didn’t stop the thoughts.
So as I boarded, I realized that the judge and executioner had taken recess and that wasn’t the first thought that popped into my head. Instead it was just idle curiosity, “Would this trip end in a fiery crash, the second tier story on CNN right behind the latest political scuffle?”
Maybe I was getting better.
©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2013, written entirely on my iPhone.
The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect 