Airborne
Never mind the over-caffeinated flight attendants, the screaming babies, the person in front of me reclining their chair into my lap—it’s really the air that gets me.
Never mind the over-caffeinated flight attendants, the screaming babies, the person in front of me reclining their chair into my lap—it’s really the air that gets me.
I have an operating theory that boredom proceeds greatness almost as often as the phrase “hold my beer.” I think in a culture of convenience we never challenge ourselves to wait.
If you’ve got $157 to blow in a movie theater this month and a rom-com that passes the Bechdel Test is something that catches your fancy, I’d suggest Trainwreck.
Things like sex or empathy work better the less you engage with them analytically, the less you step back and watch yourself doing them.
But imagine what would happen to Los Angeles if an earthquake knocked out the electrical grid for a month. Plenty of hell can break loose in thirty desperate days.
My colleagues included an Australian, an Austrian, an Irishman, and a Scot. Each time we walked into a pub, the room buzzed like the beginning of the world’s most-told joke.
And so I have to wonder if life is less about walking a road and more about building one. I wonder if it matters less how far we’ve been and how much we’ve seen.
Sometimes I Google search Emma Watson, just to, you know, stay in touch. She’s this contemplative introvert who values privacy, thrust into a world of celebrity.
Like I said, I worry a lot. My husband tells me that about 50 percent of the time that I feel bad about something, I shouldn’t. Our honeymoon was no exception.