I can't write about big things that happen. I can write only about small things. And when I write about these small things, I write so darn much that the total time it takes to read my story is longer than the time it took for the story to unfold in real life.
Most of the time, it's okay that I am like this.
But it's a horrible curse whenever I do something really great. If I have a lot of fun or a really busy day or do something so momentous that my whole life is forever changed. Because then, I clam up. And I can't think of a way to properly convey my emotions or my reactions. Indeed, I think I am incapable of writing about any states of mind other than "miffed" or "sorta baffled."
And I can't pick out the highlights of my day and put them all into one really great post. For example, about a month ago I went on a wine tasting trip with a bunch of friends for Miriam's bachelorette party. (My second wine tasting so far this year...ay yiyi.) And while the day was full of fabulous moments (scenic views, gossipy girl talk, Victoria's Secret bags full of vomit being thrown out of limo's sun roof), I couldn't find a way to frame the whole thing. Or, as we in the news business say, I couldn't find an angle.
I'm not really in the news business. I just made that up to say angle.
So I never wrote about that day.
The reason I'm talking about this is not just to take up space. (Okay, it's part of the reason.) It's to explain why, now that I'm back from visiting my parents for a few days and going to Miriam's wedding, I can't particularly think of what to tell you all about it.
And so for now, I'm going to tell you about what happened in the bathroom of Hancock Airport after I'd just arrived in Syracuse.
Btw, isn't it so great to pee after holding it for a whole plane ride?
So I'm in the stall, buttoning my pants back up (aw yeah, it's sexy time), and I'm waiting impatiently for the wooshing sound of the automatic toilet to flush behind me.
Finally, I turn around to see a handle on the back of the toilet. "Oh right," I thought. "Those things." So I lean back and press down the handle with my foot.
Then I step out of the stall and walk up to the sink. I put some soap on my hands and then shove them under the faucet. I wait. I wave my hands back and forth under the faucet a few times.
And then I spot the handles on either side of the faucet. One labeled with an "H" and once with a "C."
"Oh right," I thought. "Those things."
It's not that I think of myself as too good to flush my own toilet or wash my own hands, it's just that I've gotten so used to all of these overzealous little automatic devices in public bathrooms. Soap dispensers, paper towel dispensers. They are everywhere, particularly in airports, where I'm surprised you have to even wipe your own ass any more.
I sound like a grumpy old person. But I'm sick of being made to look like a fool because I'm waving my hands wildly in the air, desperately trying to get the attention of the paper towel dispenser, and then grunting in anger when it only gives me a 2 inch portion to work with.
Anyway, so I stood at the sink and said "huh." Not huh with a question mark. Huh with a period. It's an important distinction. And I said huh. a lot over the course of my time back in central New York.
But most of the time, I had fun.
Tomorrow: the story of how I got stuck with gray fish pasta.