Love advice from the
Scene's resident literary lothario
Dear Damian: What is it about air travel that makes me fall in love so easily? On a few occasions, I’ve struck up a conversation with women sitting next to me on a flight. Within minutes I’m enamored, and thinking, “Where have you been all my life?” And if they live near me, invariably I ask them out. (I’ve even initiated a long-distance situation, albeit a brief one.) After a date or two, without fail I wind up thinking, “What in the hell did I see in this woman?” Is it just me? Does this happen to anyone else?
Dear Aviator: Ah, the mysteries of flight. As a world traveler and a man well versed in the elusive ways of the fairer sex, I can relate. Perhaps it’s the altitude or the recycled air, or maybe they’re piping in some sort of giddy gas to keep the passengers calm. Just a few weeks ago, on a flight back from Miami, I find myself glancing at the lass sitting next to me, and suddenly, like some cheesy Hollywood movie, it’s as if the lights go soft and a luminescent haze surrounds her face as the rest of the world slowly fades away. We begin to talk and soon discover that neither of us watches American Idol
, that we both live on streets beginning with the letter “L” and that if you change two of the digits in her phone number, you get my phone number from when I was in elementary school. And we both drive 2002 Honda Accords! (Well, I don’t, but my sister does.)
Well, one thing leads to another, and...well, you know. (See photo from my trip, above.) Still basking in the miles-high afterglow, we stroll casually to the baggage claim together, taking each other in. As I get in my limo, I see her wander off toward long-term parking, and the anticipation for our date later that week reaches a fever pitch.
When we finally go out, I’m barely two bites into my Virago sushi roll when the conversation goes into a nosedive, punctuated with blank stares, uncomfortable pauses, and her repeatedly asking me, “So what is it that you do again?” (Perhaps it would have helped if I had answered her, but “professional lothario” can be a bit intimidating.)
It wasn’t long before I concluded this wasn’t the woman for me—despite her lavatorial splendor, she wasn’t equal to my intellect or social standing, she lacked social graces, and most importantly, she was incapable of grasping the humor in my insightful and witty repartee. (Oh, and she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room and never returned. Perhaps she was overwhelmed by my worldliness, or was falling for me so hard and fast that she was terrified.)
But for a few short moments on Delta 431, she was everything I needed to make the flight go by in the wink of an eye. As the ad says, “Fly United.” But before you set a wedding date, remember: what happens at 35,000 feet stays at 35,000 feet.
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