Random tidbits.

It's no wonder people read chick lit, terrible romance novels, mindless fluff. Such books never come out in hardcover. They are small, easily held, light. My most recent tome of choice is too heavy to hold up for long while I relax in my hammock. When people say light summer reading, I think they mean it literally!

I got in my car after work today and reached for my chapstick. Something didn't feel right, though. My hand got sticky, and I was nervous to take the cap off. My poor, poor lip balm did not just get a little melty, a little smooshy; it started to liquefy.

You know it's a bad traffic day when 30 on the highway seems recklessly fast.

My sister and I beat my grandma and Chuck at bridge. We won three games in a row, which apparently has a special name. "You got a 700 rubber? Well that's just disgusting." Thanks, grandma, I knew you'd be proud of us for learning so well.

I managed to coax a few freckles out of hiding today. I've missed them dearly.

Did I mention I'll be moving out soon? I don't yet know where, but Jess and I will soon be roommates once again. About damn time, eh?

There's more. There's always more. But I am woefully behind on sleep, and I must go attempt to remedy that.

The Little Things

Having been out of windshield washer fluid for a good two weeks now, it gives me a disproportionate level of glee that the dealership filled it up during my car's check-up this evening.

I seriously giggled maniacally.

Life Lessons

Don't quit your job search just because you found one you really want. Wanting does not equal getting. (I didn't get that job I wanted. I have an interview to be a bank teller on Tuesday, though! So that's something.)

Just because your boyfriend is dead doesn't mean you should wear the same pair of earrings for a month. I know that now. I'm sorry, ears. I'm sorrier, pretty earrings.

When you do finally change your earrings, you probably shouldn't put in heavy dangly ones. Your ears are used to studs. Heavy earrings are heavy. I'm sorry again, ears.

Have your resume in front of you when you have a phone interview. You will be nervous, and you will forget how long you've been at all your jobs.

Your grandma has some really great stories, like how a car she was in once got hit by a train, and that's what made Bob start to fall in love with Muriel, who he married before he married grandma, Muriel's sister (after Muriel had died young, because she had a weak heart because she had rheumatic fever when she was young). Also, she's funny. The only dance she does is the Elevator Dance - no steps!!

You shouldn't go online shopping when you're unemployed.

True story.

Scene: Team gingergirl and brunette versus team gingerboy and blondie. Gingergirl has pizza in one hand.

Brunette and blondie both have to take shots in course of game.

Gingerboy wants to high five gingergirl, for non-shot-taking-win-ing-ness. Gingergirl winds up for high five. Gingergirl sees pizza in other hand. Gingergirl withdraws proffered high five hand, knowing she cannot at this time double high five.

(Gingergirl has need of high fiving with both hands every time a high five is given.)

(Gingergirl is exceedingly ocd.)

Gingergirl falls to ground laughing at her own ridiculosity.

My fingers hurt.

Guys, I am really good at knitting. I may not be as fast as Jess (yet), but I can make patterns, and I can double-knit, and my stitches are really even. Now I just have to learn to make something that's not a scarf. Hm.

Coming tomorrow: snow, cylons, my pants habits, inappropriate footwear, and more!

Watch out, y'all.

Between staying in Dallas last night, flying with a Memphis crew for two days, and watching the CMAs, my drawl is in full force today.

Perplexing.

Today I bought a cheese that bore the instructions, "Refrigerate after purchase."

Apparently, the grocery store has some magic property that my house lacks.

The Giggles.

When I was younger, I used to get hit by fits of the giggles. I never knew what might trigger a Laugh Attack, or how long it might last once started. A friend once clocked me in at eight minutes of uncontrollable giggling.

As I grew, The Giggles grew with me, into mere fits of silliness brought on by lack of sleep. I referred to this state as being Sleep Drunk, and it was often self-inflicted through Procrastination on Important Homeworks.

I've been mostly free of these diseases for some time now, with only a few instances of nearly-un-surpressable laughter bubbling up at inopportune moments. I was taken by surprise by a full relapse once, when my mind was under some sort of strange influence and I could not help but cackle at my pizza, but that's another story entirely.



My day was full of delays today, starting with our first flight out of Austin this morning. Also, the schedule was built with very little time between each of the four flights today, so there was no cushion time; each delay meant the next flight would also be delayed. The bad news is I did a lot of sitting around, fielding questions, and getting stared at angrily by passengers today, which makes me tired. The good news is our delays got so out of hand that they gave our last flight (and thus our overnight) to a different crew, and we got to come home instead of going to Appleton, WI for the night.

An unexpected Friday night off? Delightful! Especially delightful considering I start ANOTHER trip Saturday evening, after being scheduled to end this one Saturday morning. I was understandably in a good mood as I made my way home. Add to that the delicious, fruity dinner I had:

and you've got one happy ginger.

I sat in my room, mere hours ago, eating my fruit and reading the backlogs of a funny blog/comic I was recently directed to (Hyperbole and a Half - read it and love it) (also this one never fails to make me laugh. it's unrelated to everything else in this post, but it's so good it'll be worth it.)... uhhh, where was I? Ah yes, eating fruit and reading about bears and spaghetti noodles. I sat, eating and reading, and then I finished eating. I went upstairs to take care of my dish and locate my purse (which turned out to be directly next to where I had been sitting in my room), giggling slightly at one drawing or another I had just looked at. As I left my room, I saw a note I had written to remind myself to put the gel inserts into my new work shoes:

Put things in shoes.

I was struck by the image of piling things into my shoes -- marbles, twigs, matchbox cars, batteries -- until they were overflowing with flotsam and jetsam. Think about for a second, and (I hope) you'll see that it's a funny image, especially when left as an important item on a to-do list; it was even funnier to me, what with my not-working happiness and my sleepiness. I burst into laughter as I started walking up the stairs. It then occurred to me how ridiculous it was of me to be laughing while performing the simple task of putting my bowl into the dishwasher, and suddenly, I was unable to stop laughing. Every giggle only made me giggle more, until I could do nothing but shake my head and shrug when my roommate (can I call them roommates? I like it better that way.) asked me what was so funny.

The Fit has passed (unfortunately? fortunately?), but it reminded me of a simpler time. I hope I never grow out of getting the Giggles.




In other news, do you ever get an intense itch in a random but localized spot that, before you can even reach to scratch it, turns into a stabbing pain that makes your entire afflicted limb twitch? That's been happening in the center of my left shin ALL NIGHT. WHAT. THE FUCK.


In other other news, and contrary to what you may have inferred from both the subject and the distant date of my last post, I am not dead. The insects have not bested me yet. We are engaged in an ongoing war of wits. Or hand vacuums and wand dusters. You know, whichever.

Addendum

Please add to the previous List of Lost Things: my phone.

For 28 hours, I felt naked and scared. Now I'm back to my old phone, which sadly lacks the internets I've gotten so used to. Alas.

On the plus side, I found out you can text people from the internet, and my Razr not only allows me to be emo again, but also has TETRIS.

So there's that.

Casualties

So far in my time as a flight attendant, I have lost/hotels have gained:
- one watch (I later recovered it, though)
- one pillowcase
- one awesome razor
- one white t-shirt, slightly smelly

That's not much, really, considering I've been doing this for a year and a half. I always feel sad when I remember the things I've left behind, though.

I also often wonder how many hours I've exchanged. I often spend the night in different time zones, occasionally even three different time zones during one four-day trip! Am I losing hours of my life, or gaining? Or does it all manage to even out eventually?

These are the thoughts that plague me.

Numbers

One of my favorite things to ask my pilots is how old they think I am. Last night, my captain told me he wasn't sure I'd be old enough to go out for a drink. My first officer guessed 23 or 24. I confirmed 24, and he nodded and told me, "You look young, but you carry yourself older."

I like it.

Tidbits and things.

I get bored at work occasionally, and I fill my time by writing future blog entries, or shopping lists, or to-do lists, or Christmas present lists, or lists of what I would do with the money if I won the Powerball. One of these days I'll take a picture for you of what my papers look like by the end of a trip. Sometimes (like the paper I'm typing from right now), I just have one big sheet; other times I have five different smaller ones covered in messy blue ink. I write upside down and sideways, to distinguish different trains of thought from each other. Many of my blog entries stem from these almost indecipherable handwritten pages.

I actually had an entry written and ready to type up that I could have posted on the 22nd, but I have a pattern going, and I knew which two entries I wanted next. (I don't know if you've noticed my pattern. It was unintentional at first, but once I noticed it, I had to keep it going.) Those two entries were also written up and ready to go, only I'd written them on my last trip and left them at home on my days off. They were quite long, and I liked the way I'd started them, so I just decided to wait instead of posting what I had and interrupting my pattern.

But now my pattern is filled in, and it's time for this random entry, filled of tidbits that I wrote on my last couple of trips. Welcome to the things that happen to me at work...

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You know when you can feel a hair tickling your skin in your cleavage but you're at work and there are passengers sitting right in front of you and you can't reach in and dig around to find it? Yeah, I hate that.

I like to try to sneak peaks of what passengers are reading. A sentence, an author, a chapter title. I don't know why, but I get a strange enjoyment from it.

I don't particularly love wine or beer, but serving them to other people and knowing I can't have any sure makes me want some.

It seems pretty common in the airline business for everyone to have certain airports they get stuck at more often than others. Mine are St. Cloud (which is sadly closing soon), Peoria, and just recently added, White Plains.

Usually flight crews make an effort of avoid airplane lavatories when at all possible. We had an hour delay the other morning, during which we were stuck on the airplane with no heat (just the crew, the passengers were luckily waiting warmly inside, though I'm sure they didn't think themselves lucky). We all had quite a bit of coffee. Despite all three of us having used to lav just before we started boarding, all three of us had to make the walk of shame all the way to the back of the airplane to use the lav during our reasonably short one hour and twelve minute flight. As a bonus, though, that meant I got to be in the flight deck twice during one flight!

Why do people insist on ignoring me? All day long. They pretend they can't see me, standing at the door as they board, or hear me tell them good morning. They stand up AS I'm saying the words, "The captain has turned the seatbelt sign on; please return to or remain in your seats and ensure that you seatbelt is securely fastened." They release their seatbelts as soon as they land, and ignore me asking them to keep them fastened until we're at the gate. (This is a particular pet peeve of mine, actually. Would you take off your seatbelt in your car just because you're in a traffic jam? No, because you're still driving. The aircraft is still active, there are still other vehicles and other planes around, we are not yet parked, so keep your effing seatbelt on. It's not going to help you if you stand up two seconds earlier; the door is still going to open at the same time, the jetbridge is still going to take two minutes to be lined up. So please, just hold your freaking horses.) They lean their seats back as soon as I sit down, despite the fact that I just asked them to please make sure their seat-backs were all the way up for takeoff and we haven't left the gate yet. They ignore the garbage bag that I walk down the aisle with, instead opting to leave their trash stuffed into the seat pocket. They even ignore my smile and wishes for a good day as they exit. Why? Why do people hate me? Why do people think they're so above me? People ignoring me so insistently day after day might be contributing to my dislike of people in general.

Whoever designed the brand-new Wendy's at the airport seems to have neglected the fact that it is not, in fact, a regular restaurant, but rather an airport location. People are in a hurry, cranky, and most importantly, loaded with baggage. But no, the restaurant has no extra room to order, no designated spot in which to wait for your order, not even an inch of extra space between tables in which to stash your multitude of bags. And yet, I cannot resist the siren call of that little ginger hamburger-pusher. I have a weakness for lettuce on my cheeseburger. Even in the morning I can't stay away; who can resist $2 biscuits and gravy?

I swear, people think I have a secret route through the cabin that they can't see. After everyone has stood up and is waiting to exit, someone in the front will ask me, "Can you get my bag for me? It's a couple of bins back." Well, sir, can you get your bag? "No, the aisle is full of people, I can't get through." ... Exactly.

Some guy left me his number on a post-it note on the back of his seat the other day. No name, just a tiny hot pink post-it that said, "Cindy, Call Me 555-555-5555" (except with an actual number). I don't recall anyone on that flight making an effort to flirt or get me to notice them, which means either A - I am oblivious, 2 - he (or she?) sucks at flirting, or C - s/he really didn't make any effort to be memorable. I don't even recall who was sitting in that seat, though my pilots were all for finding out. (Is it weird that, on every single trip, I call the pilots I'm flying with "my pilots"?) I assured them that was unnecessary and would probably upset my boyfriend, which led them down a whole new path of ridicule. For instance, they hypothesized that the mystery-number-leaver was like a secret shopper for boyfriends, hired by Eric to bait me, to see if I'd call, or to see if I'd tell him about getting a number from a stranger, or if I'd hide something like that. My pilots then decided that it didn't matter that I have a boyfriend, and they wanted me to call the guy, and/or to get even more numbers. They even offered, on subsequent flights, to announce that I was looking for phone numbers, and they scolded me for hiding in the galley during a delay, telling me I sure wouldn't be getting any numbers that way.

I would sigh and say, you see? You see the shit I have to put up with? But it was one of the funniest trips I've had in awhile. It's nice when you can actually talk and joke around with your pilots, even if you are the butt of many of the jokes.

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In other news, I have Christmas off! More on that later.

Twilight spoilers!

You've been warned. There are spoilers to follow. Also, hilariousity.





It's pretty ridiculous how much I love these books. But I'm not ashamed. Mostly.

November 11th.

One of my fellow bell choir members told me tonight that I need to do less drugs before coming to bells. And that about sums up my day.

I am nothing if not a procrastinator.

Somewhere in the middle of October, I found myself perusing the "How to Write Books" books at the bookstore. I looked at the cute little NaNoWriMo-in-a-box kit and thought how fun it would be to participate this year. (NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month, in which you are supposed to write a novel. In a month. It's about quantity, not quality, and it's to get you started and show yourself that yes, it actually can be done.) But, knowing myself as I do, I knew that I wouldn't do it. Or, even if I did decide to, I wouldn't finish. I did think, though, that it would be fun instead to try to blog every day in November. I made a mental note to attempt such a feat.

In case you didn't notice, it's November 9th, and my last entry was almost a month ago.

So that failed.

But I'm here now, so let me tell you a bit about how my life's been since that last entry. In a word: awesome. If I could pick two words, they'd be awesome and busy. More words, and things start getting worse (delayed. unscheduled. smelly. unhealthy.), but really, overall awesome.

I've had some great crews, including a crew on my least favorite plane, for a last-minute overnight that was thrown onto my schedule after a long day of being stuck in one tiny room wih a broken airplane sitting uselessly outside. As unhappy as I was with the change to my schedule, it ended up being one of the best times I've had with a crew.
My bff got and started a job. Not only am I happy for her about this in general, I'm also glad that she's actually liking it so far. A happy her is a happy us.
My cousin who has lived in North Carolina for the past ten years and who I often miss seeing evem when she is in town thanks to my job has just decided to move back to Minnesota.
And, of course, my awesome new boyfriend has given me a plethora of reasons to be smiley and awesome.

As for busy, boy let me tell you. Every month, flight attendants are guaranteed 75 flight hours. When I place my bid every month (aka when I tell the computer what I'd like my schedule to look like the next month, which days I need off, etc), I bid ti get as many hours as possible in as few days as possible, to maximize time off. This month, I also decided to allow my schedule to be built with only one day off in between trips instead of the standard two, in hopes that I would get a nice string of a lot of days off at some point in the month. I had no such luck. In November, I have the minimum number of days off allowed in a month (a mere ten), and 90 flight hours. 90. 90 is a ridiculous number of hours to have built into your schedule, especially for someone as low in seniority as me, and especially considering I didn't request more than the standard 75. In all of November, I never have more than two days off in a row, every single one of my trips is a four-day, and I only have one day off in between some of them.

As I said, besides awesome, my month has been (and will continue to be) busy.

There is a ladybug trying to find a comfortable perch inside my lampshade. Scared the crap out of about two minutes ago.

Anyway, now that it's the second week of November, I'd like to try my November daily blogging goal. I know, I know. You're probably thinking, "Cindy, how on earth will you manage that?"

I guess you'll just have to stay tuned to find out.


P.S. I was going to wait to post this so I could look it over on an actual screen instead of here on mypod, but in an effort to kick off blogmonth, fuck that, I'll just post it as-is. Please forgive any typographical errors. Erroneous "b"s are probably supposed to be spaces between words. Kthxbai.

Where to begin?

In reading through some recent posts, I realized a couple of things. Number 1: they're not all that recent. B: I'm effing emo. And lastly: many things have changed.

Right now, I'm wearing blue pajama pants, a brown t-shirt, and a horizontally striped black and white long sleeved shirt. I feel this is important for somebody to know, but I have no idea who. So, you.

It's officially winter, even though it's only early October. I know this because three of my nails have broken in the last two days, and my hands are all dry and red because I didn't put lotion on last night. Unmistakable signs of winter. Also, the snow on the ground and the delays at the airport today were a pretty good indication.

I was on the same plane for nine hours today. Literally didn't even step off to get food or use a real bathroom (stupid airplane lavatories). Shouldn't I be somewhere like England or China by now?

Remember that dating website I joined? Total bust. Not even one awesome person to be found. (Well, maybe just one...) And remember how I'm bad at dating, because I've never really done it? (That's what she said?)

Turns out, I'm not so bad at dating, I'm just bad at finding the right person to date. I've done it, though. I found someone who is pretty darn neat, if I do say so myself. He lives far away, but hopefully not for long. He took me to the aquarium, where I got to learn about seahorses. I love seahorses. I'm shy, and awkward, and he doesn't seem to mind. He watches HGTV with me. He holds my hand and says nice things and likes puns and seems to like me and plays board games with me and he's just making me so much smilier than normal lately, and I'm pretty smiley to begin with.

So there's that.

And other than that, pretty much everything is the same as always.


Oh, crap. What if I AM bad at dating, and he's just too nice to tell me?

Back by popular demand.

It's amazing how fast things can change, unexpectedly, and so much for the better.

I've been at my job over a year. I got a raise, and I can get some new uniform pieces for free, thanks to a yearly uniform money stipend.

Today I learned that mannequin is spelled with a q. Why haven't I known that all along?

Infants cannot be stored in overhead bins, beneath the seat in front of you, or in harnesses attached to one's own body. They must be held during taxi, takeoff, and landing.

Favre has beat every team in the NFL. I don't care who you are or how much you don't care about football, that's impressive. Also, go Twins. Minnesota pretty much is awesome.

I know a lot more than some flight attendants who have been at this job a lot longer than I. This makes me slightly nervous for our passengers. Why are you freaking out about emergency equipment comp checks? You should know this stuff. What if you had an emergency? You should already know what to do! I read my trashy vampire book while my classmates demanded silence in the cafeteria (yeah, good luck with that one) and frantically paged through the review booklet.

Well, not all my classmates. One of my favorite women from our new hire initial training is in my recurrent ground school class this week. I rarely see her around the airport, so I was glad to see her on the list for class. She's one of the nicest people I've ever met. And her hair is like eight feet longer than mine.

Speaking of which, I almost died last weekend thanks to a horrific long-hair-plus-hair-dryer situation. If your hair is inside of a hair dryer and starting to catch on fire a little, how are you supposed to put that fire out when it's impossible to unplug the hair dryer from the wall? Luckily, it did not burst into flames in my hand, and I found the fuse box to ease my nerves even more.

Before that near-near-death experience, I was jinxed into death while driving a long distance in the rain. You can't just tell someone to have a nice drive and to not die. That's why you tell actors to break a leg instead of wishing them luck, and why you don't say "crash" on an airplane.

Luckily, though, I actually survived, and had a couple of the best days I've had in a long, long time. So good, in fact, that I have plans to repeat them this week.

In conclusion, in case anyone was wondering, I can and will kick your ass at Othello.

More than you ever wanted to know...

One day in eighth grade, we all filed to the library and lined up to have our eyes checked. I didn't think anything of it; I could see just fine. I covered my left eye and read all the letters perfectly. I covered my right eye and blinked. "That's weird," I thought. "Ahh, everything must be fuzzy because I had that eye closed. That makes sense." Only, I didn't have it closed, I had it covered with a piratey eye patch on a popsicle stick. I blinked a few more times, leaned forward, and read what I could. The nice lady at the table to the side told me it looked like I'd need glasses. I must have looked stricken, because she told me not to worry and assured me that "glasses are cool!"

It wasn't that I was worried about glasses being uncool; I was already uncool, and I'd made my peace with that. Hell, in kindergarten, I longed for braces, going so far as to get excited when one of my new teeth looked like it was coming in crooked and breathlessly asking my mom, "Do you think I'll need braces??" It's like I was begging to be a nerd. (Not that I've ever need the help of equipment of any kind to achieve nerddom.)

Alas, my teeth are very nearly perfect without the help of any metal at all, aside from the instruments that scrape them sparkly twice a year (and though my kindergarten self is no doubt disappointed, I am glad I never had to deal with braces). It looked like my eyes, on the other hand, would need some help. (Ha! Get it? Looked like? My eyes?) But as I say, I wasn't worried, just confused. Turns out my lack of difficulty seeing stemmed from the fact that my right eye not only needed no prescription, but was actually 20/15, even better than perfect 20/20!

And so it was that on December 31, 1998, I got my very first pair of glasses. (I also got my very first period that day. Because you really needed to know that.) They were round and gold and, frankly, quite terrible, though I didn't think so at the time. I wore them all through high school, and it never even occurred to me to get new frames when I got new lenses.

Having now worn them for over ten years, I've grown quite attached to glasses. Not that first pair, of course, but glasses in general. I think I look ridiculous without them. I did order contacts once, but I think I wore it (I say it, not them, because if you'll recall, my right eye needed no correction. I thought about getting a monocle, but there are just none to be had) maybe three times. I just like myself better in glasses. (I like boys better in glasses, too, in case you were wondering.)

Recently, I've been noticing a certain lack of clarity, a sure sign it's time for new glasses. My latest pair has treated me well, but when you have vision insurance, why not get an entirely new pair? So I did. My new glasses came in yesterday, and I'm so in love with them.

I hope black, chunky, rectangular glasses don't go out of style anytime soon, or I will be sorely out of luck. I'm going to be that old lady who looks ridiculous because she refuses to let go of the fashions of her younger self.

Luckily, I made my peace with being a huge nerd a long time ago.


Now, for your viewing pleasure, a pictorial history of my face.

Here's a picture of me in sixth grade, pre-glasses:

I know it's sixth grade, because you can see the bright yellow cast on my right arm. I wonder why I chose yellow?

This lovely specimen is from our eighth grade field trip to D.C.:


This is from, I believe, senior year of high school. Notice I'm still wearing the same round, gold glasses. Also notice, I'm meeting Christopher Moore. <3


The summer after senior year, it finally occurred to me to get new frames. I have a small head, and ended up getting a pair from the children's section. They were Barbie brand.

I look, what, 13 here? I was 18. This next one is just because it makes me smile.

Look how close I was to that panda!!!!

For my next new glasses, I upgraded to chunky and plastic.

Also from the children's section, these were brown on the outside and blue on the inside, and they had hearts on the sides. Hearts!


After those, I went to America's Best and got TWO pairs of glasses at the SAME TIME! Note: don't do this. Waste of money. I think I wore this first pair less than ten times ever.

Blue and metal and cute, I just never switched it up like I thought I would. Here's the pair I've been wearing for the majority of the past two-ish years:


And, at long last, the glasses I wore home yesterday:




Coming soon to a blog near you: a post about something INTERESTING!

...

Maybe.

Five sure signs it's almost that time of month.

One: My boobs will be ginormous one day. I will definitely notice, and probably spend some time ogling myself in a mirror.

Two: One day, nothing will fit right. My pants will be too tight, my stomach will be visible in every shirt I try to wear. I will feel gross, and think to myself again how I really should start to work out. I will not make the connection until a couple days later.

Three: I will be super horny.

Four: I will have a LOT of extra road rage. A LOT. And I can have quite a bit to begin with.

Five: I will have a lot of extra rage in general, but mostly directed at my mother. By this time, I've usually figured out what's going on, and I feel guilty about the anger. But knowing doesn't actually make me not angry.

You'd think I'd just know to expect these things when I reach my sugar pills every month, but sadly, you would be wrong. Will I ever learn?

Seven.

I remember hearing somewhere once that a person should get seven touches a day. Hugs, handshakes, pats on the back, whatever, as long as it's physical contact. I don't recall what the exact reasoning was, but I don't think that's important, because the concept makes sense to me. I start to feel detached if I don't have some sort of physical contact with people, like I'm not actually connected to the world around me, but just floating about in it, somehow.

When I lived with my fiance, the seven touches a day thing was no problem. There were hugs and kisses and holding hands and hands on knees in cars and a whole realm of physicality between us. I didn't have to worry. I always felt connected. Grounded. Present.

It helped that I lived in the same town as all of my friends, and a lot of us are very touchy-feely people anyway, with hugs abounding. (Abounding? Is that even a word?)

Now, however. Now I have none of that. No live-in man who is required to touch me at least occasionally. No hug-happy friends nearby at all times. Some days I force my cuddling upon Jess, who tolerates me. Some days I shake hands with pilots. Some days I get hugs from people at church, and often from my parents. But it doesn't seem the same. It doesn't seem like enough. How can it be, when it sends a shock through me when a nice old man squeezes my arm as he leaves the plane? How can I be getting enough contact with the world when it startles me when my knee brushes a passenger's as I walk down the aisle of my plane? Clearly, it's just not. It's not enough.

Last night, I hung out with a very friendly group of people, half of which I barely even know. We all got a little bit tipsy, and after five hours of chatting and laughing and drinking, the night ended with hugs everywhere, between everyone. People I had just met hugged me. People I've known since seventh grade hugged the breath right out of me. And this after a night of casual contact, hands on arms during a story, arms around shoulders, hands on knees to make a point. Last night, with a large group of fairly random people, I felt grounded, connected, wonderful.

Why doesn't the world hug more? I think I would be a much happier person if my world involved constant hugging.

I want to feel like that all the time again.