I’m very hesitant to write about anything super-personal on the internet.
Well, false. I actually share my neuroses and anxieties with y’all all the time, internet, and I wax poetic about my quirks and problems and shortcomings, but I am hesitant to write about anything personal that involves someone else, because then I’m that girl. I’m that girl, airing my relationships for everyone to see, whether the intended party signed up for their name to be strewn across a webpage or not.
I mean, I tried this time.
You see, there’s this little buzz in the back of my head that’s been itching to write about this for a while. Nothing overwhelming, not even the beginning of the whole story, but still something. So, here goes.
The Chicago airport is not where I expected anything significant to happen.
The Chicago airport was supposed to be a stop that didn’t matter, literally, a go-between and maybe a few minutes of me reading an InStyle with an overpriced latte while instagramming a photo of my shoes out of boredom.
But, it was significant.
We met at a baggage claim, which I think describes us maybe better than anything else could. A place that was full of people, full of distraction, and full of constant change. You’re not supposed to spend a long time at a baggage claim, you know. Just grab your bags and move on. By all intents and purposes, we shouldn’t have met. We should have just kept walking across the terminal to our respective locations. I mean, I know we were headed to the same place and probably would have run into each other anyway, but there’s something about suitcase carrier 5 that seemed to change things.
So, we met amidst so many ridiculous things.
I can, of course, remember my outfit and remember my hair color and style at the time, but I don’t remember the first thing you said– only that it made me laugh, and that you continued to make me laugh and distract me from important things. So everything else – people, appointments, cups of coffee – got half of my attention that weekend and even though that might usually cause me anxiety, I thought nothing of it. I’m always all-talk, but you could keep up and you could play along with all my puns and singalongs. We compared things in common and made far too many of the same references and got mad when we agreed too much.
Because, let’s face it, the whole thing was somewhat sickeningly adorable, and you and I were much too cool for that sort of thing. We were both chasing after being independent and renegades and maybe one of us was wearing a ridiculous graphic t-shirt that said “Free Spirit” and taking it a little too close to heart, but still. We were not the sort of people to read Nora Ephron books and believe them, to let romantic comedy plot lines become reality or to take stock in a one-time meeting.
We were supposed to be moving on. Getting on the next plane. Taking our suitcases with us, not opening them and unpacking our lives and talking about important things and agreeing so much.
So, we met in a baggage claim, and I still don’t know what to do about it all.
And now, a couple months and a couple thousand miles later, when you look at me and sing, “we found love in a baggage claim” to the tune of Rihanna’s “We Found Love (In A Hopeless Place)” like you always do, I’ll still roll my eyes, but hey, maybe one day I’ll end up writing it all down and it’ll seem less crazy and less cryptic.
But, probably not.