Update UPDATE!!! So, I have just been informed that it is Barney RUBBLE not Barney FLINSTONE but I can’t change the title now because that is where my traffic is going already and I don’t know how to covertly waylay google and OH MY GOD, what would Betty say? I got that right, right? There IS a Betty Rubble? And a Dino? And he loves me? I’m sorry I screwed up your husband’s name, Betty! (thank you for pointing out my lame-o mess-up Sara!)
I was in Chicago for meetings a couple weeks ago. Part of the new job. The only “Chicago” I saw was a steaming hotdog slathered in neon green relish and a gigantic deep dish pizza. The hotdog left me with a marching band of a stomach ache… but the pizza? You Chicagoans KNOW how to do pizza. Hot damn. I would have poured that beautiful grease into a crystal wine glass and polished off every last savory drop if it hadn’t occured to me that doing so would have likely left a Questionable First Impression.
My flight left at the GOD AWFUL hour of 6:00 o’clock in the morning. As in AM. As in BEFORE DAWN. What in the hell was I thinking when I booked that flight? I went to bed nice and early only to stare at the ceiling for 3 hours before bolting upright every remaining 15 minutes in a suffocating sheet-tangled panic fearing I had missed my flight. Evidently this version of sleep did not compliment John’s slumber style.
Somehow I didn’t miss my boarding time. I did however conveniently forget to pay my overly diligent cab driver who caught me JUST before I got through security.
Damn cabbies and their rules.
Eventually I found myself jacked up on caffeine, drowzily jittering at my gate. I was feeling rather sorry for myself: Boo hoo, whoa is me, it’s really really really early and my family is still in bed.
Just when I was settling in to drown in my emo-fest, a monolithic, mountain of a man plopped down across from me. He sat there sprawling across his seat and the seat beside him and the seat beside that, his legs tumbling in a criss-cross of Pick-Up Sticks* all around him. He just didn’t end. His presence pulled me out of my semi-conscious Starbucks buzz and jolted me into the coolest reality ever:
I was now perched a mere 4 feet away from the flesh and blood incarnation of Barney Flinstone on steroids.
He was 6 feet 4 inches tall and pushing at least 265 lbs. His shaggy blond mop of hair was rockin’ bedhead in a way that would make Robert Pattinson** feel like a sissy-pants. He was sporting black and aqua coloured burmuda shorts in a complicated mitochondrion*** print and his faded electric cyan t shirt had shrunk down to a tiny tee.
Are you picturing this?
The man was a wall and he was wearing a tiny tee.
Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly be more in love with this guy’s fashion sense he stood up, huffed a bored sigh of contentment and slowly galumphed off in the direction of the mens room. Revealing his back. And his MINI BACKPACK.
Things were officially looking up. I decided then and there that REGARDLESS of the sleepless night and the early bird flight and having to pay my cab fare, the rest of my day was going to KICK SOME SERIOUS ASS. It had to. Sure, I was going to be riding the middle seat back in coach for hours on end with no meal from the westcoast of Canada all the way over to Chicago, BUT I SAW BARNEY FLINSTONE WITH MY OWN TWO EYES.
And Barney had a backpack.
I think every single god in every single culture in the entire world would say that is a wicked good sign.
*Pick-up Sticks. Remember those?
**This is Robert Pattinson. I had to google him to get his name right… so just in case you don’t know who he is. If any of y’all are Twilight fans: You’re welcome.
***Mitochondrion– yes that is the word I meant… and yes the pattern on his shorts was very bio-fab.