Traveling Makes My Nipples Hard

I was washing my face in the Bangkok airport bathroom last night and looked up to see my nipples trying to drill a hole through my shirt – what the hell? It wasn’t cold or anything, in fact it was about 100 degrees, so why all the noise? And more importantly, were they sticking straight out like that for the entire trip???

I wondered if it could be due to pressure from the airplane. Maybe flying somehow squeezes all your blood to your most extreme extremities? Then I remembered this guy I met in India confessing that it was the first thing he noticed about me when we met and this was weeks after I’d landed in Delhi. Apparently I walked into a restaurant, headlights blaring – hello India! Table for me and my breasts please! He nearly knocked over a chair in his hurry to come talk to me, and as pleasantly surprised I was by my instant popularity, I do believe I’ll put some band aids on the situation before heading out this morning. Bangkok has enough bizarre sexual undertones of its own without me putting in my two cents. Plus it kind of hurts when I walk.

Other than that, my trip is off to a great start even with the crying in the airport part which I’ll get to in a minute. I didn’t miss my plane which was a small miracle because I left uncharacteristically late for someone as uptight as I am when it comes to getting to airports on time, but I was staying with a dear friend who I hadn’t seen in over ten years and who wants to leave that just to catch a stupid plane?

It rained nonstop the night before my flight and I left way too late, during rush hour, with flooded roads and zero time to fill up my rental car and return it. This reality hit me about halfway to the airport when I realized how frikken lucky I was that it was traffic-free (going my direction anyway) even though my friend, and everyone on the radio, guaranteed it would be fully ugly. I arrived just in time, with no lines, to discover they’d given my seat away which resulted in, when I got to the gate, getting bumped up to first class. Hello! 13 hour flight! Complimentary slippers! Handed to me just like that! And my nipples weren’t even hard yet.

Alrighty, now to the crying part. So the reason I was on the east coast was for a two day seminar with my coaching mentor, ass kicker at large, David Neagle, who I pay lots of money to to make me a better coach as well as force me to look at why certain things in my life are not the way I want them to be and to help me get off my butt to change them. All the crap that I’ve kept buried miles beneath the deep dark slimy bottom of my soul for decades was suddenly drudged up, dragged to the surface dripping with seaweed and mud and eyeballs and shaken in my face – “See? THIS is why you only date men who can’t afford to buy you a ham sandwich!”

Then I went to the airport. Then I became Exhibit A: Woman sobbing at Gate 35C.

But here’s the weird thing: I felt like opening this Pandora’s box and facing it started making things flow in a whole new, traffic-free, first-class kind of way and I’m bringing it up now, on the kick-off to my big, most excellent adventure, to see if it keeps going. Or rather to see if I can keep it going. Stay tuned.

In the meantime….

Random Traveling Observation #1:

When people drag their bodies around the globe, social conventions go flying out the window. Ladies in fancy clothes lie stretched out and snoring on airport furniture, bleary-eyed men wander the aisles in their socks, strangers pass out on your shoulder and obliviously attempt to spoon you, we strip for security, allow strangers to rifle through the unmentionables in our luggage and I sob openly. It cracks me up.