The trouble with English majors.

The thing about Literature (with a capital L) is, there's always more than one answer.

People say that there are no wrong answers, which is absolutely not true. But there certainly can be a plethora of right answers. There is always more than one way to read something, always more than one way to interpret this line or that, this reference or that combination of words that may or may not be a hidden reference. There's a whole world of possibility in every book, in every paragraph, and every interpretation can be argued and defended and appear equally right.

It's infuriating, really.

I got to a point in college when I longed for logic. A math class, a formula. Numbers, a right and a wrong answer. Results.

Sometimes the only way to know an author's true intention is to hear it from the horse's mouth, as it were. But what if s/he is long since dead and gone? Hope to hell they told someone else what they really meant? Or try to be content with the not knowing?

I myself don't really like the not knowing.

I should've majored in math.

Oh, hello July.

Ah, my dear readers. I apologize for my woeful absence. There is no excuse, really. Except that I don't think my life is exciting enough to blog about lately. But I could be wrong.

Did you know that when I have downtime at work (for example, I've finished my beverage service and there's still an hour left of flight time; we've just taken off, but we'll be landing in fifteen minutes, so I don't even have time to get out of my jumpseat; we've started our descent, I've made both pre-landing announcements, I've done my compliance checks, and now all there is to do is sit in my seat and wait), I often write down little tidbits to blog about later? Things that have happened to me, something I observed that day, or even just subjects I've been meaning to mention.

For example:

Little old man is reading Eclipse. Eclipse! Which means either he's very confused, or he's already read Twlight and New Moon! Love it.

The barf bag is not your personal garbage bag. Some people actually need to use those for their intended purpose, which is hard to do when it's missing from the pocket. If you don't intend to throw up in it, kindly leave it in the seat pocket for the next person.

And so on and so on.

The other day, a little old lady ("I'm almost 90," I overheard her tell someone) was sitting on my plane after everyone else was gone, waiting for wheelchair assistance. MSP is not often on the ball with wheelchair assistance, but that's a rant for another time. I sat across the aisle from her to chat while we waited (did you know it's illegal for me to get off the plane if there are still passengers onboard?). She told me about her son, and where she and her husband had been, and how that was the smoothest flight she'd ever had. Then she asked me some questions. "Did you make it through high school?" she wanted to know. I smiled a little, nodded, and said, "I'm 24." Her eyes widened and she actually let out a little gasp before telling me, "Oh! I thought you were 16!" I laughed and said I get that a lot, and proceeded to tell her yes, indeed, I went to and graduated from college, and certainly made it through high school.

It was only a little white lie. I'll be 24 in just over a week now. Around about the end of June every year, I start thinking of myself as the age I will be as of July 10 instead of the age I am until then.

Also, I thought 24 would be even more of a shock than 23, and I'm all about wowing people when I can.

Fun fact: I was due on July 4th. I was a procrastinator/sleep-in-er even before I was born! Can you imagine, though? I definitely would have believed that the fireworks were for me.