the zidane

yesterday, i flew back home to san diego. because of my gold status, i was graciously allowed to board with the first class members. i slipped into the red carpeted, purple velvet roped off line (not kidding) and tried to make myself invisible to the other non first class/non gold status passengers. They were looking at me with longing for they (i will never know why) also wished to board first and sit in fart air for 45 minutes as the rest of the plane filled up. *i* had my guitar with me so i wanted to make sure that i secured enough space for it early on. that's my excuse for boarding early.

i have to admit that i felt like a total poser. as everyone dropped off at rows 1-8, i continued on to row 27, seat b. i felt like a party crasher, except there was no food, no music, and no drinks. so, maybe i didn't feel like a party crasher, after all. i just felt like...a poser.

you know, it's weird waiting for the plane to fill up around you. you inadvertantly make eye contact with people you will never see again and make a small connection. people look down and smile at you, uncomfortable you, sitting in your seat as butts and bags brush your head. they are little, pursed smiles, but still, smiles that say "here we go again! WE'RE IN THIS TOGETHER!" or "50% of us will order Tomato Juice even tho we never order Tomato Juice outside of an airplane!" or "I smile at you now, but if i'm next to you, it's ARMREST DOWN!"

the middle aged chinese man in row 26A was struggling with his suitcase. i found myself strangly fixated on his success. i was urging him along in my head, "come on! come ooooon-uh! you can do it! push in that corner. oh no, it's the front zipper pocket...do you have a book in there? take the book out! TAKE IT OUT!" my hands were twitching, as if it was clutching an invisible joystick that was maneuvering the suitcase into the overhead compartment.

i nervously glance at the backlog of people who are growing more and more impatient as seconds tick by. all eyes are on him. i mop my brow in nervousness and my stomach feels tight. he glances down at me (probably bc he feels my death ray stare boring holes into the side of his head) and it's all i can do to restrain myself from flashing him an encouraging, toothy grin and give him the double thumbs up sign. instead, i blink away and pretend that there is nothing more fascinating than the runway control man with his giant headphones and mini light saber.

i see a flight attendant pushing her way through. but i want him to do it on his own. because i tho say there is no shame in a little help from your friends (break into beatles song here), there's something a tiiiiiny bit emasculating about a softly padded 50 year old woman named shirley being able to deftly push your suitcase in the compartment in 2 seconds when you, a presumably stronger man in his 40's , just spent the past 5 mintutes trying to so. then he did a marvelous move that i call "the zidane". he used his HEAD to successfuly push in his suitcase and i almost wept with joy.

i uttered a "yesssssss!" under my breath and did a mini version of the hockey goal fist pump that i learned from schuyler. i was so relieved! and so was the middle aged chinese man. he looked down at me and gave me a little pursed smile.