I have a fondness for airport bars. Somehow, they don’t have that air of desperation wafting through them like happy hour places. The patrons in airports are exciting; they’re going somewhere. They are merely killing time between one exciting flight and another and they all have an interesting story.
I’m different, too. When I’m in the airport bar, I don’t have laundry on the floor in stacks of whites, darks, and hand-washables. I don’t have a front flowerbed in dire need of weeding. No one knows that my fish tank looks like it’s filled with anti-freeze or that there’s something scary growing in that plastic container on the back of the third shelf in my refrigerator. The bartender has no idea that I have Eurekaphobia (fear of vacuums).
Yeah, it’s a nice little fantasy. I can’t wait for my next trip.
I’m different, too. When I’m in the airport bar, I don’t have laundry on the floor in stacks of whites, darks, and hand-washables. I don’t have a front flowerbed in dire need of weeding. No one knows that my fish tank looks like it’s filled with anti-freeze or that there’s something scary growing in that plastic container on the back of the third shelf in my refrigerator. The bartender has no idea that I have Eurekaphobia (fear of vacuums).
Yeah, it’s a nice little fantasy. I can’t wait for my next trip.
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