I have a friend who once ate pot brownies before getting on an airplane. He was flying high, wondering if he made in his pants. He wasn’t sure what was real. I’m not permitted to eat brownies on this foul, self-imposed, mostly-improvised diet. So I’m not flying high; I’m flying solo. I shouldn’t be.
The Suitor forgot his passport. You’re getting on an international flight, so forgetting your passport is like forgetting to wipe. But it’s what happened, and in a weird way, I understand it. I forgot my camera, and I never forget my camera. He remembered his. Floss, tennis racquets, socks, sunscreen. But no passport. It’s like something you read about. No, people don’t write about that. It’s like something you see on a sitcom.
So now I’m alone, imagining what I’ll not do in a romantic ocean-view hotel room. I’m sitting in the airport waiting for the plane to board. It’s 9AM (something like that–my time is all screwed up) and people here are ordering beers and glasses of chardonnay. It’s not even noon. You just brushed your teeth. Who does this? Nervous fliers, bored people, and alcoholics. The people around me just look bored. I’m bored too. It’s why I’m writing this.
I usually load up on magazines for the flight, heavy ones, a stack of them. This time I have a stack of pilot scripts to read. It is actually fascinating reading, learning from others’ mistakes, envying their genius. "I wish I wrote that." It’s nice being able to fall in love like that. My flight is boarding… tonight I’m going to be gambling at a casino. Roulette. Unless someone teaches me how to play craps. I want to kiss the dice. It’s about all I’ll be making out with this vacation.
The Suitor finally arrived in the Dominican Republic come Saturday afternoon. I arrived, alone, on Thursday. He missed the rehearsal dinner, some toasts, the beach, the pool, me. "He’s never going to live this one down," everyone (and their mother’s) said to me. If the situation had been reversed, had I been the one who forgot her passport in Austin, Texas while we were flying from JFK in New York to Punta Cana to attend the wedding of his closest friend, I assure you, I would have been crying. He would have made me feel horrible. There would have been an enormous fight. "You don’t care about the same things I do. You don’t care about me." would have been slung across my shoulders. I would have carried it. He would have made me feel horrible. I just know this, the way you know things, just KNOW. I know this is how he operates. He’d feel better if I felt horrible about it. I’d feel horrible about it without him having to say a word, but he would say a word, a mean one. Or three.
I didn’t say anything. I was of course disappointed, but what could I do? What was the point in making him feel worse? He didn’t even apologize. Okay, he did eventually, but right off, when the car was downstairs and we were about to lug our bags downstairs, and I asked those rhetorical questions like, "Got the keys? Got your passport?" He responded with a "No." Ha. Ha. No. It was not very ha ha. "Well I remembered to pack yours Stephanie." That’s because when we were in Austin, I asked him three times if he packed my passport. "Since when do you need a passport to go to the Caribbean?" Then I climbed into the car with my luggage and his camera, hoping he’d find a way down there the next morning. Long story not quite short, he did make it down there, for one day. And I hope if things are ever reversed in our future that he’ll remember to treat me as I treated him, with understanding, without a temper, without drama or a fit. Do onto others and all that.