i only wear white when it rains

I don’t know what the actual percentage is of delays out of Liberty International Airport, but my personal record is approaching 300%.

This overheated, Sanka-serving abomination is like the Venus Flytrap of travel.

Everything seems dandy (albeit curry scented) until you pass through the 2-hour long security line naked and arrive at your Starbucks-free gate. Where 5,000 Affliction-sporting passengers are clamoring for a cup of instant coffee and a cream cheese bagel because that’s all there is. Unless of course you’re hungry enough to salt an “I heart NY” T-shirt, which I might do in a second to protest the lack of restaurants. Suffice it to say I’d settle for a salt water taffy kiosk at this point.

Here in terminal A, you should know there is only one bathroom with three sensor toilets that attempt to flush the tampon from the woman before you down into the NJ water supply, but instead just tear it apart and then cough it back up as a gift to you for waiting patiently in line. I guess maybe the lack of dining options can be a blessing.

Not until you arrive at this standing-room only gate with no first class club do you realize the oily haired man laying on the floor uncomfortably close to your Burberry messenger bag is fresh off a NYC subway, clearly eager to fly to a place where hygiene is completely superfluous. You resist the urge to tell him, “You’ve arrived, my friend.”

I finally score an empty seat facing the Hudson News stand equipped with three men’s interest magazines (Popular Mechanics anyone?) and a man telling the airport’s hotspot to “Fuck off” because he cannot log on to it after furiously tapping away at his iPad for what seems like hours.

The proximity of my head to the man seated behind me is disconcerting at best because I actually smell his unwashed hair. And besides looking into an ear canal filled with wax, there is nothing that turns my stomach more. It might be time to offer my seat to an elderly person and earn some good karma points in the hopes that I can cash in and get the fuck out of here this week.

Just as I’m about to get up to flee Sir Stinky Scalps, iPad starts to speak to me.

“Are you goin’ to Tampa?” he asks.

Finding the pores on his nose, as large as peppercorns, distracting, I pause for a second and stare.

“You look like you’re from Florida,” he adds.

I can’t help but wonder what looking like being from Florida looks like. Is it that I’m blonde? Less than 300 pounds? Not wearing a diamond-encrusted nameplate?

I tell him I’m going to Tampa. “If we ever get there. ” And then secretly will the airport’s WiFi to work so that I can slip away and attempt a potty break in a toilet that doesn’t look like a crime scene.

“You look like this girl I know named Stephanie.”

“Oh,” I answer. Wondering what his Biore strips look like.

“Yeah, she works at Sebastian’s in Clearwater.”

I’m intrigued since I immediately assume Sebastian’s is a topless bar and he’s going to proposition me for a blowjob any second.

“Yeah,” he explains. “It’s like a convenience store by Feathersound. You know…by the gas station.”

I sink back into my chair, never thinking that he could surpass the BJ proposition with something even more insulting.

To be fair, New Jersey is not kind to me. The toxic waste in the water might make for the best bagels and pizza dough, but it also deposits enough poison on my hair to turn it a brassy shade of pee. My face has been so swollen since I arrived last week that I actually resorted to applying Preparation H in the mornings so that I look less like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade Float. But…

“A convenience store?” I ask. “I look like someone who works at like, a 7-11?”

Why can’t I look like somebody smart? Sure, maybe I wouldn’t feel exactly beautiful if my twin was the Pinellas Circuit Court judge, but at least I’d be confident she had all her teeth and could make change for a dollar.

As Biore Boy rambled off more detail about Stephanie than anyone wants to know (widow; husband was multimillionaire who committed suicide, et al) I realized that I should not be conversing with random travelers who were just in the down dog position over their iPads.

So I’m bidding my friend adieu and heading to the T-shirt stand. I just hope they have Dijon mustard.