God is always watching, but there’s one way he’ll let single women know when they’re in good standing.
A plane will tell you where you stand with God. There are incidents and accidents waiting for you everywhere, and that one Yom Kippur your forgot to fast or that hamburger you had on Friday may come back to haunt you as you shimmy into your five inch seat, put your arm down, and find a piece of watermelon Bubblicious gum hermetically attached to your forearm. As you stand up to go to the bathroom and smack your head on the two millimeter air infuser, you’ll be immediately reminded of the time last week when you told your mother to shut up over the phone. You’re concust and have gum on your arm that most likely came from a child harboring the H1N1 virus, and the plane hasn’t even separated from the gate. Awesome.
The fun doesn’t stop there. If you think you’re leaving on time, check yourself into Belview. While you set five alarms to ensure you’d make it to the airport two hours before estimated takeoff, Mr. and Mrs. Idontgiveadamn decided to sleep an extra half hour and hold up your flight. Don’t worry though, they called their friend sitting in the back of the airbus and told her to have the flight attendants keep the cabin door open. Wouldn’t want the obnoxious, self-absorbed passengers missing their flight, would we?
Keep in mind you still haven’t budged from the gate. Enter standbys – your pre-flight entertainment.
You choreographed your flights, ensured early airport arrival, and stood by the gate for an hour to guarantee boarding early and securing overhead compartment space, but these standbys haven’t put in half your effort and want twice the flight benefits. Although you’ve now been sitting in your seat for thirty-five minutes with a bag securely resting above your head in a completely full compartment, the standbys don’t care. One is determined to find space for her oversized luggage directly above her seat – conveniently located in the row behind you. After complaining in an unnaturally high voice, your new neighbor relinquishes the hope of an easy flight exit after opening and closing each nearby compartment twice.
At this point, you realize you hate people.
Two seconds later, you notice the seat next to you is empty. Fear and excitement run through your mind as you mentally recall everyone from the terminal. There was the hot guy sitting alone and eleven rows back, wearing a faded blue sweater over a white button down, jamming out to his ipod, and casually sleeping every twenty-eight minutes (not that you were watching). There was the man who sat across from you, fidgeting on his computer and butting into your conversations – the one you gave an A for effort and an S for social awkwardness. Both have yet to board the plane.
This is when your mind takes over. You have to know who is sitting next to you, and you have to know now. Is it possible that your dream guy will sit down in 17D and blow your mind between JFK and LAX? Oh, the excitement!
Three men walk onto the plane. The awkward guy, the hot guy, and the guy you now remember from the terminal because he smelled like rotten cheese. Suddenly the awkward guy doesn’t seem so bad with his weird comments about fog. It’s in this moment that you begin to pray. Please be the hot guy. You make all kinds of promises to God. You swear you’ll stop cursing your boss when she leaves the room; you promise to cut down on your liquid courage intake; hell, you even promise not to go to Bloomingdales for the annual friends and family sale. You begin to rationalize – mentally listing all your good deeds and reminding God that it’s been four months since your last, decent date.
Please, please, please be the hot guy.
The awkward guy quickly approaches. You breathe in, and he walks past. One down – you’re left with the bee’s knees or rotten cheese. What’s it gonna be? You can’t take it anymore. I promise to volunteer next week at the animal shelter, the soup kitchen, the hospital – I will do anything, just give me the hot guy.
Here he comes. Oh my, he’s even cuter up close. You’re starting to sweat. He pauses to look at his ticket. Closer, closer, closer. Holy crap, he’s stopping at your row. You’re dying inside. A smile takes over your face. And just then, the woman behind you stands up.
Wait, what’s happening? Hot guy sits down behind you – next to the woman who you previously thought would throw your bag out the window to make room for hers. She gets the hot guy? Bitch.
Cheese man slides on by and sits down next to you. Holy cheddar. You vow to never volunteer again, and you are so going to that sale because you need new clothes to cheer you up from this extravaganza. It’s only four and a half hours, you tell yourself. That, and God hates you.
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