Walden
Or, How an Adult Male Aardvark Will Stop a Speeding Leopard, But Only If You Are Using Honey to Catch Flies Instead of Tap Water
So what if he was small. He was working it.
So what if he happened to be standing on his dad's knees while he worked it.
He'd been nosing around the floor, wondering what it would be like to be a dog, let loose on an airplane, when the clarion call of some kind of bag, usually containing snacks, in his experience, rustled from up above. He poked his head around someone's knee to verify. Verified.
This bag wasn't the lovely new purple one he'd discovered in his nana's kitchen the week before. But it crinkled, and his parents looked excited about whatever it was, so he was excited about whatever it was.
He pulled himself up to a standing position, all the better to be pulled up from, and made himself as liftable-y appealing as possible. He thought, briefly, about turning to his mom and doing one of those signs she loved so much, when he put his little fingers together and made little "mo', mo'" noises. He knew for a fact this routine worked absolutely every single time he'd tried it.
Fortunately, he didn't need to use it, which was good, because he suspected his dad was catching on to his "mo', mo'" trick. His dad lifted him up, which was acceptable, if not ideal, if only because it put him within range of the bag.
And it was in when he was being handed one of the these things out of the bag -- salted, dusty with onion, or garlic, or something -- that he noticed her.
Sure, she was probably older than he. She had her own seat, after all. And could read, something he hadn't gotten around to just yet. But she looked lovely, and he had five hours and fifty five minutes to kill.
It's tough to work it on a plane. You've a limited space with which to work, a bunch of people who are forced to share the same cramped space, cramped seats, small video screens, filtered air, and odd pockets of air that are either just marginally too cool or too warm. It's not an ideal environment. But he was good at improvising. You should see what he could do with stickers. Or even just a bit of sticky paper.
The smile with a mouthful of the lovely pretzel snacks half mushed up into paste on his little tongue, eyes a-sparkle, was what did it for him, had her eating out of the palm of his hand. Well, not literally. He was literally eating of of the palm of his hand, one more of the little pretzels, and he was in charge of this here flight. And that one little conquest was just his first assertion of that fact.
disclaimer:
We're back from Ireland... and jetlagged. So here you go.
The preceding, as a result of jetlag, probably, is a mostly true story. By your dear Sane Magazine founder. Me.
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