Last week I was on a flight to Utah to surprise my sister for her graduation. In Chicago, they had us all board the plane, sit there for 45 minutes, then get off again and stay in our little group in the airport for two more hours waiting for who knows what, file back through security, and finally get back on the plane.
Well it got me thinking, as I half listened to my fellow passengers commiserating and spouting off conspiracy theories-and this is likely because I just finished watching season three of LOST-what if these people and I somehow got stranded on an island together (you know like one of those crazy black hole islands in the middle of the great lakes).
Oh I could see it all. Already cliques had started forming, the balding guy in the middle cracking up the backpackers with messy hair. The large tanned family returning from Hawaii, all the girls wearing matching pajama jeans and bickering with their little brother. The impatient businessman in back, who at one point started yelling that he wanted to get back on the plane already (duh). And then there was the guy getting his masters from Yale, whispering conspiratorially with the woman who had proudly announced that she worked in Washington, so she knew how things like this worked.
Obviously this is a ridiculous post full of boring airport woes and my imagination getting the better of me. But I will tell you this: our flight had a shocking lack of sexy thirty-something year olds when compared to Oceanic flight 815.
photo via tattly