I'm about to wheel my suitcase past a group of flight attendants when I hear ...
"I was adjusting my bra strap and one of the guys leaned forward and said, well let me help." Palms on her hips, freshly laquered nails in the air, Blondie's voice inches up another incredulous notch. "Can you believe it?"
Yep, I can.
Generally I stay away from flight ops. I prefer to pass on the aging recliners, the heightened sense of drama and find a quiet corner in the airport where I can maintain my sanity.
Only this time, I can't help it, I stop and drop my chin. Once I have my laughter under control, I look up and clear my throat. "Um, ladies, that guy is my husband," three shocked expressions meet mine, "he didn't mean anything, he just thinks he's funny."
"You can't know who I mean," Blondie's brows twitch, her nostrils flare, but a hint of uncertainty quirks her mouth. Crimson lipstick matches her manicure. "Do you have a picture?"
"Sure," I shrug and dig into my wallet. "Is this the culprit?"
The photograph is plucked from my fingers and the trio chatter like tropical birds before the group leader turns back to me. "How could you tell who we we're talking about?"
"You sound just like him."
This happens often and being more tom boy than fashionista I'm often entertained by Hubby's oddball remarks. Like;
"Hey honey, I just flew with this flight attendent who pulled up her skirt and asked if she should raise her hem."
My brows knit as I give Hubby a look. "And?"
"And I told her, not with those legs." Delighted with himself he grins.
He nods. "Yep, she had great legs. I think she wanted a compliment."
I start to laugh. If she wanted a compliment, she got the wrong guy. I told him once he had great legs and he told me my bruise wasn't so bad.