That Time I Got Drunk In An Airport Bar

It is a perfect storm. A match made in heaven, like salt and tequila. I had spent the day locked in a conference room for 6 hours with clients. I do not cope well in situations requiring more than two hours of undivided attention. To say I have a short attention span is similar to saying Bill Cosby is ‘kind of’ guilty.

I am anxious to get to the airport on time to get home to my family. I’ve been gone from my husband and kids for 3 days and I miss them desperately. I dash through security, tiptoeing my way through the body scanner and plop back into my sandals. I rush over to the Departures board only to see ‘Delayed’ shouting at me in red next to my flight. “Fuck,” I grunt. A fucking 2 hour fucking delay. I’m not going to be home in time to tuck my kids into bed. I will miss my toddler’s routine of telling me all the things he loves less than me. It goes something like this, “I love you more than dinosaurs and sea turtles and, and ambulances and cheese.” He doesn’t actually like cheese; nevertheless, it is the finest moment of my day.

I slump into the closest airport bar chair I can find, ready to flop about like Donald Trump’s reputation. My waitress, Pamela, is a friendly dear. She introduces herself and asks me how she can serve me.

“Glass of Merlot,“ I snap.

“Would you like a 6 or 9 ounce pour, sweetie?”

I slow blink her until she begins walking slowly backward towards the bar, “Nine it is then,” she mutters, eyes rolling.

I’m starting to feel better after my second 9 ounce pour. Pamela and I have seemingly called a truce. I order a third glass, calculating between the delay and my 2 hour flight home, I will be perfectly okay to drive. Then the dreaded message pops up on my Delta app, my flight has been delayed another 2 hours.

There is only one thing left to do: get shitfaced in an airport bar.

I peruse the drink menu for my next victim. Channeling my inner Key West, I order a Long Island Iced Tea and tuck in for a game my husband and I call ‘Got One.’ ‘Got One’ involves finding a person or persons in a bar and making up a story about their lives. The first person to come up with a story that makes the other laugh wins. I’m drunk enough at this point, confident it will be as funny solo.

I spot a 20 something on the other side of the bar. He’s jamming out to tunes from his $300 Beats headphones, wearing an ironic fedora, his head strutting forward and back like a cartoon chicken. I surmise he and his girlfriend Skii (pronounced Sky) broke up last night at Olive Garden. He cried for hours into his neverending salad and breadsticks. Now he’s listening wistfully to ‘With or Without You’, devising a plan to win her back. I start to laugh. I win.

I celebrate with a Jack and Coke.

I glance at the woman next to me. Her necklace resembles a suppository. She looks at me, gasps, and storms off. It appears I may have inadvertently said that out loud. Pamela and I share a brief chuckle.

I spot a couple sitting on the same side of a booth. I deduce her name is Marjorie. Her husband Alfonso, a former flamenco dancer, is aloof. She is certain he has been having an affair with their nanny Valentina. Words are exchanged. He shakes his head in frustration. Either they are headed towards divorce or can’t agree on an appetizer. Either way, the situation remains tense.

After another celebratory cocktail, I decide to send my husband a list of things he and the children should do tonight in my absence. It goes something like this, “Please remember science project due tomorrow. Also please give toddler bath. Spaghetti. YOLO, TGIF, WTF.”

I finally ask Pamela to close my tab. It appears I have taken on an English accent. We exchange numbers, take a selfie, and I stumble down to my gate.

And this, my friends, is what happens when you leave me alone at a bar.

(This post originally ran on Another Mother Blog.)