On my way to Vegas for #BiSC, though, my flight out of DCA was like starring in M. Night Shyamalan's Unbreakable. After surviving a series of inexplicable events,2 I realized that I'd met my archnemesis. She believed in none of my core values.
Below, a recap, in (what I'm sure my foe kept as) notes-to-herself form:
- Invade his personal space. Elbow him, hard. Who needs each rib?
- Prey on him, like a snow leopard. Like Sally O'Malley is 50, I am 60. Make an uncomfortable remark about his legs ("Long, eh?").
- Mock his OCD. Wipe down everything in sight with a clearly filthy paper towel.
- Challenge his OCD. Stow my uncovered drink in seat pocket. Dare it to spill on him.
- Assault his senses. Add aggressively floral fragrance to self that bites like Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors.
- Misuse an animated Disney plot element. Pull out a quart-sized baggie containing 3 oz. of what looks like gummyberry juice. Fail at pouring it into cup and spill it on crotch. Out of desperation, pour what is actually codeine syrup directly from bag into mouth, like a bro eating the last few bits from a bag of Doritos.
- Blind him. Bend over aisle to share earphones with traveling partner watching Meet the Press on iPad. Expose significantly more underwear than appropriate.
- Strike fear in him. Note that traveling partner is actually my attorney. Everyone knows that only women who have been, or will be, in prison travel with their attorney.
- Push him to the brink. Apply anti-aging cream to chin, using reflection from TV screen in the headrest.
- Finish him. Ask if his arms are folded because he's cold. When he says they're folded to honor my personal space, tell him, "That's okay. I actually wouldn't mind the body heat [of your elbow touching me]."