youngfreeandsingle

When you’re a teeny-tiny 24 years old, turning 25 in a few weeks - but we don’t talk about that - and are man hungry single, every situation presents itself as an opportunity to meet a fine young gentleman to spend a splenderous, fruitful, passionate and meaningful……few months with.  Not that “The One”(capital T, capital O) may not be JUST “around the corner” (incidently, this phrase is misleading, I constantly walk around corners of buildings, streets, rooms etc, and have yet to find anything of any worth) but lets live in the real world - a few months is attainable.  A lifetime?  Not right now.

So back to the point in question.  You can meet fabulous men just about anywhere; especially when you live in New York.  Some more prevalent examples in my life are - in the street, in the club, in work, at a cocktail evening, in Starbucks, in the Deli…the list goes on.  However, I wasn’t prepared for the ultimate chick-lit cliche of meeting a guy on a plane.  The story unfolds on a recent long-haul flight from Miami to London, on an extremely busy Virgin Atlantic flight where I found myself to be the unfortunate soul in seat 60F (I presume there is a seat like this on every flight).  Behind me were two teenage siblings who, despite it being a night flight, did not stop shouting, arguing and physically fighting for the entire flight.  To the left of them was their loathesome mother who did nothing to stop them, but instead appeared to be adjudicating the bout.  Doing all but ringing a bell and walking past them in a bikini with the round number on a card.  To the left of me was a lady with a baby (screaming) and a toddler (screaming louder) and in the seat directly in front of me was a lovely man (insert sarcasm here) who had his seat fully reclined, I can only imagine, before i’d even stepped out of departures.  The only beacon of light in this pit of disaster, screaming, fighting, crammed legroom and questionable smell (presumably from either the screaming babies or the sloth in 59F) was the empty window seat next to me.  At around 10 minutes before we were due to take off, I reached a pinnacle of ecstacy about it (yes that last comment sounds demented, but then so were the people I was surrounded by and would have to endure for the forseeable future).  The thought of 2 WHOLE economy seats all to myself to luxuriate in over the 9 hour flight was too exciting to imagine.  2 minutes later my hopes were dashed.  Fortunately they were dashed by a tall, dark, handsome man with an incredibly large…….camera.  *Cough*

 The same thoughts passed through my mind that always do when i’m in this situation.  He’s either married, attached, gay or a serial-killer.  They’re the options.  Cynical?  Yes.  But necessary.  In a couple of furtive sidewards glances (whilst trying to look as though I was admiring the runway and terminal building - “hmm yes, that shade of concrete is delightful”) i’d narrowed him down.  No wedding ring.  Yes, he could still be married and not wear a ring, but as he had a ring on his right hand, and a bracelet and watch, I deduced that he has no issues with wearing jewellery.  If he was married he’d be wearing a ring.  Boom.  Not gay.  He’d checked out my ass (not my outfit) as i’d got up to let him sit down.  Plus he was wearing an outfit that screamed “hetero travelling” - the jeans/t-shirt combo with rucksack and sandals, none of which matched, none of which had taken any thought to put together.  Boom.  Serial-killer?  In this day and age you can never be too quick to judge but his behaviour for the rest of the flight placed him firmly in the “probably not” column.  Examples of which, he helped me navigate the in-flight entertainment, kept excusing himself for disturbing me for going to the “loo” and talked lots about his family.  Granted i’ve never been in the company of an accomplished Ted Manson-esque killer, but I can’t imagine Ted Manson ever apologizing to one of his victims for having to pass them to go to the restroom. Maybe that’s naive and i’ll live to regret it, but i’ll take my chances for now.  Not a serial killer.  Boom.  Attached?  Again, as single women (and of course, single men) know, this is a slippery eel.  If the person’s is in a relationship but is a player, they will not display signs of relationship-isms.  No “we”s, no mention of the significant other and general deliberate omission of any chat about people the same sex as you….  The jury is still out on this one, but in the interests of research, i’m going to say no.  Boom.  Fresh meat cometh.

After several minutes of there being no conversation (I had become engrossed in a conversation a few rows down between a passenger and crew member, whereby the passenger was complaining that his seat was narrower than the one next to his.  The crew member assured him that Virgin had not done this on purpose to sleight him, and any anomoly regarding seat width was purely hit-and-miss.   Incidently, he went on to pay £300 to move to “premium economy” - assumedly the extra inch of seatroom was that necessary for him.)  Just before take off, I (being a woman who has no interest in the man starting the conversation, as it’s usually a crappy line, or inane and irrelevant question or statement) started chatting to him about the “narrow seat” man a few rows down and inserted a few witty comments to peak his interest.  He engaged quickly (good sign), returned questions (better sign) and kept rubbing his arm whilst talking (best sign, definitely straight, definitely nervous.)  This sounds like a strange thing to say, I know, however after dating for some time now body-language has become second nature to me, and a sign like this repetition of the same move whilst talking always means that the person you’re talking to is not 100% comfortable and as such you have the power and control over the conversation and situation.  This is great for me, as i’m a bit of a talker…..

The next 9 hours passed surprisingly quickly, with conversations about what we were doing in Miami, where we lived, what we did for work, family, music, sports and other things.  He helped me with the in-flight entertainment (atypical right?  The chick doesn’t know how to work the technology).  We talked about the movies we’d watched and what we thought.  I Am Legend.  Me: Reasonable.  Him: Outstanding.  Sweeney Todd.  Me: Hard work in parts but funny.  Him: Gave up after 10 minutes.  Juno.  Me: Outstanding.  Him: Chick flick with chick humour.  I gave him the parts of my dinner I couldn’t eat (atypical.  The chick can’t eat all her dinner and gives it to the alpha male who will eat everything because he’s so big and strong), he offered me his chocolate cake (atypical would have been to accept, chicks dig chocolate.  I declined.  Not atypical, yess!).  It was the best long-haul flight i’ve probably ever had. 

And so, as at the end of every flight, the time comes for the captain to tell you………….your circling above your destination for 40 minutes until you get a landing slot.  A good lee-way into the “Sooo do you have a phone/access to the internet or are you adept in telepathy?” portion of the events.  Being a lady, I left this part to him, and as such I was rewarded with the most awkward (and may I say hilarious) execution of this line I have ever heard.  Not the stuff of great romance, or even mediocre Mills and Boon.  It went a little something like this……

Him: So errr, we’ll be landing soon.

Me: (distractedly whilst pretending to read a magazine) Hmmm.  Oh right, yeah.

Him:  So errr, y’know, errrrr, we’ll have to stay in touch, or something.

Me:  Sure.

Him:  Soooo, how shall we do this..errr are you on facebook?

Me: (In my head - FACEBOOK???? Be a MAN and ask for my number.  FUCK FACEBOOK!)  In reality: Yes.

Him:  Oh great, great, so we should chat on facebook soon and then maybe I could errr….well…..errr.

Me:  What?

Him:  Oh err, maybe I could take your number too, or err give you mine….whatever you want.  I mean, if you want, I mean…errr….I mean…

Me: (soothingly) Sure, no worries, here just put your number into my phone and i’ll give you a shout sometime.

Him: Oh ok, great, great, and maybe I could get your number just incase, or errr…or errr…

Me:  I don’t give out my numbers to guys really.  I’ll just call you.

9 hours.  Ruined in 2 minutes.  That was 2 days ago.  Should I call him?  Probably, he was a nice guy, he was good-looking and he was interesting.  Will I call him?  Probably not.  I mean really, if it’s that much work for the guy to ask for your number, how hard is it going to be for him to ask for….well, other stuff!   No, I think he’s resigned to the “could have been” heap.  Sad but true.  Oh well, at least now when I see a trashy book about couples meeting on a plane and falling madly in love, I can laugh knowingly….happy in the knowledge that it doesn’t happen in reality.  In reality the guy is hanging around at the luggage carousel trying to pin you down to a definite time that you’ll call, while you lug a 80lb suitcase onto your trolley……c’est la vie, c’est la vie.

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