Where Is...

In an unfortunate life (a.k.a. mine) I spent an extra few hours delayed at the Salt Lake International airport. Luckily they have a playground. I especially enjoyed the Ariel chair and Under the Sea special table with a hidden treasure top. Wish I could be part of that world, but I’m a little old and have been receiving odd looks all night.

Here I sit in my casual church clothes. Meaning a summery skirt and pale blue Banana T complete with flip-flops, tear-stained cheeks (this is no lie. As I later discovered that a morning cry left streaks in my powder foundation, barely noticeable when you’re red swollen eyes look in the mirror, a little more noticeable at midnight?!) and wavy semi-greasy hair. Who can be bothered to get ready for a night of travel?

No it’s not me they are checking out, it’s the sexy red Vaio. I know because many days I come home from work, throw my purse on the clothes covered carpet and pause to stare. It’s smooth and shiny, a bit like a certain pair of ruby red slippers. If the witches saw this baby they’d be plotting again. And clicking the keyboard a tornado would sweep me back home to Lamar.

Or so I thought until a tired looking girl ran to me, threw herself at my feet, and asked for directions. The baggage claim, hmmm. I encouraged her to continue down the corridor. If she didn’t run into it then try the other way. I get lost in my hometown so I wonder at the GPS look I hold that causes such requests. In Ireland I wandered aimlessly about confused and directionally challenged, yet constantly people stopped me to ask for directions. They with their muddled Irish slang and I with my twangy hick talk pointing firmly as though I knew.

I think it was the running shorts that inspired confidence. If they only knew that I never once ran the same route, and not on purpose.