There is nothing like being asked to drive someone to the airport to reinforce one’s own sense of self-worth.
Do I want to drive you to the airport Friday morning? Well, sure I do! What else would I be doing if I weren’t getting up earlier than I had expected I would, picking you up and schlepping your butt to the Hubert H. Humphrey Terminal?
So when I got the call Wednesday, you gotta know that I jumped at the chance.
It was T on the phone.
“I need a favor,” he said.
“What’s going on?”
“What are you doing Friday morning? ‘Cause I’m packing my pants,” he said.
I had to shake my head a bit at that one. He’s packing his pants? Why, I oughta… “Are you coming on to me?”
As it turns out, the answer to that is “no”. No, he was not.
Man. I’m telling you, once you’re married, the action really drops off.
As it turns out, he was packing his pants – and his shirts, his socks, and his copy of Chicken Soup for the Follicle-ly-Challenged Soul, too. He was flying to Florida for a weekend get-away at his sister’s place.
And would I drive him to the airport?
Because it’s Friday, I’m not working, and I got nothing better to do.
And one of these days I am so calling this favor in.
11 hours ago