Almost a week ago, I nearly chip my bubblegum pink nail polish as I fiddle with my nails on the drive to the airport. Nothing like battling NYC traffic on the LIE while running late to a flight to get your fingers a’biting and knees a’shaking. Hug and two smooches later, Hubby drives off and I’m asking Airport security if I can be escorted to the front of the line. My plane takes off in half an hour.
“Do you have Special Business Class Priority Check-in Status?” The lady in uniform asks me something like that.
“You have plenty of time,” she says. Meaning, get in line with the rest of the world and wait it out.
Flip-flops slipped on, jacket tucked under suitcase handle, laptop on my shoulder, I race down Terminal D to find the Delta flight to Indianapolis leaving in now fifteen minutes. Except that I read the screen wrong. Not arriving flights! Departing! Backtrack to the fork and now I’m jogging with luggage in tow down Terminal C. And it would have to be C29, the furthest possible gate from where I was on take one.
Read the tweets and Facebook statuses of millions for the last two days if you’re confused by the Blog Title. And to be honest, I have no intention of rehashing the general schools of thought circulating, but I will tell you that they tend to side with shock and embarrassment; wow, you go girl; or same old, same bold.
I find it interesting that Miley Cyrus’ twerking got labeled tasteless by some, because Robin Thicke, the artist performing while Miley did her thang, is a dad and a husband. Last I heard, Miley’s still engaged to Liam Hemsworth. And according to those oh so reliable Hollywood reporters, Paula Patton, Robin’s wife, barely batted an eyelash.