Friday, August 07, 2009

Date 31.i: Prelude to the British Invasion

As I stepped out of my car in the parking lot in front of DFW’s terminal C, I quickly dropped the towel covering my swimsuit and grabbed the shorts and sweatshirt from the backseat. I twisted my hair into a less than fashionable bun that went nicely with the just rolled out of bed looking outfit I had thrown on just 10 yards from a line of taxis. I checked myself in the side mirror on last time, reminded myself that objects in the mirror are closer than they appear and I had not lost weight in the last 10 minutes, and headed toward baggage claim. Well, Lacey, chocks away.

As I sat on the floor staring at my phone, wondering whether London would be dismayed by my post swim lesson look and question why he’d spent hours traveling to get to me I spotted them out of the corner of my eye… foreign shoes. I pride myself on my uncanny ability to sport foreign men by their footwear and London did not disappoint with his distinctly British trainers.

 Insert slightly awkward hug here.

Then, “is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “Yes.”

As we drove to my house it was clear that exhaustion had sucked the quick wit (and ability to keep his eyes fully open) right out of him. No bother.

A few moments of wanting to kiss him later, I crawled into bed with the dog to call the cruise director and apprise her of the situation.

Tomorrow I will go to work and he will rest and when I get home, Robert is your father’s brother.

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