I May Be Stranded but I'm not Stupid

I want to believe that most married men are madly in love with their wives. And many that I know are.

But it’s the ones I meet when I’m not at home that really make me question if marriage is a complete and utter façade or what. And if men are slimier than than a snail trail.

Last week I was traveling but I missed my connection and ended up struck overnight in a strange city. In a meager effort to cope with my spontaneously stranded situation I went straight to the hotel bar upon arrival and ordered a Lemon Drop martini. Extra sugar.

Gawd. This was irritating. I was supposed to be home right now. Not drinking vodka and ordering a burger. Fun as those activities are they’re not so fun surrounded by strangers when I am supposed to be home in my own comfy bed in my jam jams.

So I make due. Sip a martini. And strike up a conversation with the poor traveling schmucks at the rail.

Before the night is over I am engaging in an intriguing conversation with a successful, funny, articulate, and very married, man. (Oh fine, and cute too. He’s cute. What? Not a crime to notice someone is cute). Nothing about this is scandalous so I just enjoy the fact that the conversation keeps me distracted from my circumstances.

As we converse I begin to be more and more entertained by how he confesses to be more and more unhappily married as the night wears on.

Gimme a break.

When it’s time to call it a night he insists on walking me to my room.

Fine. He shared that he's a pilot so I figured I wasn’t going to be molested by Mr. American Airlines so I let him escort me. Besides, he wasn't that tall. I figured if he tried any funny business I'd just knee him in the nards.

And for the record, when we got to my room the only thing that guy got at my door was a free copy of USA Today in the hallway. Nope. Not even a handshake. And no, I don’t want a congratulatory cookie. I’m just saying. Why was he even there?

Yeah. One guess why he was there.

Two minutes after settling into my room my hotel phone rings. Yep. It’s miserably married man.

I answer and blurt, “You have got to be kidding me.”

“What? I am just calling because I didn’t get the address of your blog you were telling me about.”

I let out a two (or was it there?) martini laced cackle. And give him the address.
He eventually hangs up. But not before he insists he really is getting a divorce.

How does that saying go again? Oh yeah. “That’s what they allllll say . . .”

I curtly reply in as much staccato as I can muster, “Good. Well, now you have my contact information. Call me when you’re single.”

Good night, Mr. Pilot.

I got a plane to catch in the morning.

And it ain't yours.