Saturday, November 7, 2009

SOCIAL ANIMALS

Sitting in the middle of the “holding pen” at the airport this afternoon I was struck by the level of noise…human noise. I tend to keep to myself. I’m one of those folks that follow the rules…you know, those unwritten rules like, “You don’t talk in elevators.”

However, that rule definitely does not apply to airports. Complete strangers all around me were striking up conversations, “Where are you headed?” “Where are you from?” “Who are you visiting?” “Have you been there before?” “Let me show you pictures of my ______(fill in the blank: grandbaby, dog, Halloween costume…).

Apparently the airport is a place where it is acceptable to talk non stop to people you don’t know about stuff that nobody really cares about. What drives that behavior? Why do we have such a strong need to connect with those around us? Does the shared human experience reassure us that we’re “okay”? What is it about the temporary circumstance of waiting at an airport, sitting at the stadium, or standing in line at Disney World that makes us open up?

THE MANHUNT AT HARTSFIELD




I hate to fly, but I love the airport! I have always loved watching people, and the Atlanta airport is teeming with people milling all over like an army of ants.

Today while sitting in the airport, I was on a mission. I just finished reading a steamy romance novel. I looked around the airport and realized this was like hitting the jackpot when it comes to male watching. Yup…on a mission.

In the novel I just read, the hero was 6’5” tall, über-muscular, and gorgeous. He had a full head of luscious black hair and piercing blue eyes. I figure, what better place to spot him or someone like him than at a huge airport like Hartsfield.

Well, let me tell you who I spotted…short men, fat men, tall men, skinny men, bald men, men in suits, men with their pants hanging down below their underwear (eee-eee-www!!!), and even a man in red and white plaid Bermuda shorts, a wild pink floral Hawaiian shirt, a straw hat, sneakers, and black socks. Obviously he was single!

But, among all those hundreds and hundreds of men I looked at today, none looked like they just stepped off the pages of my romance novel. And so I guess that’s why it’s called FICTION.