Celebrity Sighting in the Orlando Airport

I’ve mailed all the postcards to those who sent me an address from my last post. In my continuing efforts to revive the art of the handwritten note, I bought extra postcards while I was in Florida. If you’d still like one, send me your address at morfam@hotmail.com or in a message on Facebook if you know me there. I won’t use your address for anything but mailing the card.

Julie carefully snugged her purse between her feet and pulled her carry on bag closer to her as she settled into the blue molded plastic chair that had doubtless held many airport travelers before us.

“I can’t believe the conference is already over- can you believe it went so quickly?” she asked me.

“My head's still spinning!” I replied and smiled. A 60ish man with a long beard and uncut grey hair topped by a grimy ball cap paused momentarily near an empty seat opposite us, then moved on to a more expansive space two rows over.

Julie raised her eyebrows at me and whispered, “Duck Dynasty’s Florida cousin?”

I smiled. “Maybe Sy is visiting the Magic Kingdom,” I murmured in a voice only she could hear. Julie worked again at arranging her belongings to take up less space as gate 22 began filling up around us. Julie is a dear friend of mine although we don’t often get to see each other face to face. We’d both held jobs at this large conference and were now headed home. We’d be on the same flight to DFW and from there we'd fly out to our respective homes.

Julie was a picture of casual elegance, making it look, as she always did, effortless. Her white linen Bermuda shorts, her floral blouse and her trendy ombre hair made her look at least a decade younger than her 50 years, and although she is happily married for thirty years now, she had still turned admiring heads as we made our way through the large Orlando airport.

“Julie, were you just born sophisticated? “ I asked with a grin. “I mean, did you come home from the hospital in baby pearls and with a Prada diaper bag?”

A giggle escaped from her and then turned into a melodic chuckle. She poked her elbow into my arm. “Behave!” she admonished. “We don’t want to scare people around us with our loud laughing.”

I bent down to pull my boarding pass from my purse and she elbowed me again. “Hey, I am behaving,” I told her, nose still buried in my purse.

“Look! Look!” she hissed as she surreptitiously pointed down our row. I followed the direction of her arm and saw a man about our age, cap pulled down low, studiously reading a large newspaper.

“What is it?” I asked, a little alarmed by the urgency in her voice.

“Not what, it’s who!” she replied urgently. Her eyes widened to their outer boundaries.

I sat up and looked at her quizzically. She hadn’t taken her eyes off this man once.

“It’s Leif Garrett, I’m sure of it! Oh, how I loved him!” she whispered directly into my ear. The name bounced through my brain for a moment until it hit the 1970’s region, in a small, dusty corner of my hippocampus.  

I remembered him now, the Justin Beiber of women of our age. Blond hair, dazzling smile, and tourniquet- tight leather pants, it didn’t matter that he had negligible vocal talent. Eleven and twelve year old girls like us had swooned over him. Tiger Beat magazine had made a fortune with his face on hundreds of its covers.

“Are you sure?” I pressed her, trying to get a better look even as the newspaper obscured most of his face.

“Yes, yes!” Her face reddened and she fanned herself with small motions. “Oh, oh, should I go say hello to him?”

I smiled for a moment at seeing her so undone. “I don’t know that it’s really him, because that newspaper’s in his face. What if you get up to him and it’s not Leif? What will you say?”

“I’ll just say uhh, well, I don’t know what I’ll say, but I’ve got to see if it’s him!”

I giggled. “Well, if you’re so set on this, I’ll stay here with our stuff. Go ahead.”

She pulled a breath mint out of her purse and hastily ran lipstick over her lips. Julie stood and straightened her clothes. She looked down at me one more time and I nodded my encouragement. She took a deep breath and set off purposefully towards him.

Before she got five steps in his direction, though, a cheery voice at his gate announced his airplane was now boarding. The Leif man stuffed his newspaper into the chair next to him, grabbed a briefcase, and was off into the priority boarding line without me even getting a good look at his face.

Julie froze in her tracks even as he handed his boarding pass to the attendant and disappeared into the tunnel. By the time she turned back around, she had regained the composure and warm sophistication that are her hallmarks.

And Leif, baby, wherever you are, you've still got it. 

What Happens at the Wanna Wanna...

The palapa (open sided shelter with a thatched palm roof) out back at the Wanna Wanna had seen better days, and now the delicate pinpoints of stars could be seen through the brittle brown fronds. The moon floated in and out of view in an ebony haze of nighttime clouds.

The Wanna Wanna band, the Wannabees, chewed through their laid back playlist with volume and gusto. A few people danced in the middle of the floor and more stood in line at the kitchen window to order up their choice of just- swimming- in- the- Gulf seafood.

We, however, were there to talk, catch up, and relax. Close friends, some of us stretching back even into high school, we were here at the beach in a rented condo while our husbands were off to welcome in the first weekend of dove hunting season.

"I've really been looking forward to this weekend, girls," said Marla* as she squeezed a lime wedge over her ceviche. "I feel like all I do is work, cook, and clean house!"

"Well, you got to feed all those boys, not to mention Marcos, so I imagine your kitchen is still going 24/7," laughed Emmy while she picked through her shrimp cocktail. "Hey, speaking of, are you and Marcos still going to try for a girl? Time's running out, you know..."

Marla cut her off with a splutter. "Give me a break! I'm already 44! This baby factory is closed for good." She laughed and changed the subject. "How's your salad, Shelly?"

I had a mouthful, so I nodded to show I enjoyed it, but my mind was already drifting dreamily out into the dark, pounding surf. I swallowed and and pointed out to the vast, undulating darkness of the oceanjust yards from our table. "Aren't those waves something? I can't wait to hit the beach tomorrow." The others nodded in agreement and talk of new swimsuits overtook the next few minutes.

Marla looked at the fourth friend in our group, Julie, who had been silently chewing her way through her grilled shrimp poor-boy. "Julie, you're awfully quiet, especially for someone who loves to talk as much as you do. Everything OK?"

Julie looked up and put her sandwich down. A wry, wistful look crossed her face. "I am tired. Tired of doing everything the same, always. Always following the rules, doing what I'm supposed to..."

Emmy raised her eyebrows. "You're not thinking of robbing a bank or getting a facial tattoo or something really crazy , like some of those women who go all cuckoo when they hit middle age?"

Julie looked out at the ocean and then back at us. "I'm serious. Sometimes I just want to shake things up a little, you know? I don't want to become boring and predictable. Don't you all ever feel like that?"

We all looked around and nodded our heads. Julie suddenly smiled. "I think tonight's a good night to break out of old habits." She grinned widely. " Who's with me?"

I felt a little sliver of fear rise up in my belly, but the excitement of the unexpected trumped it and I bobbed my head enthusiastically with the rest.

Julie worked her feet under the table and her shoes came off. "Let's go!" she said emphatically as she broke from the table and sprinted to the water. We watched, wide eyed, as she plowed on, fully clothed, into water that was just past waist deep. She yelled back over the waves hitting the shore, "Come on! Are you a bunch of chickens?"

Marla, Emmy and I looked at each other. Marla pulled off her watch and shoes, stuffed them into her purse, and bolted from the table, through the sand, and into the water. The laughter and shrieks as they soaked themselves jumping over and through waves was too much. I pulled off my watch, too, and was kicking off my sandals when Emmy looked at our waitress who assured, "Go ahead. I'll watch your stuff!"

With that, Emmy freed herself and we both ran headlong, giggling, into the ocean. Maybe it was the opaque blackness of the water, or the startled faces of the other patrons, or the power of the surf, but something was liberated in us that night.

Clothes that had been carefully matched and chosen were utterly drenched. Hair that had been meticulously curled, flat ironed, or blown dry now whipped around, slinging that salty water high into the air. A small crowd soon gathered on the beach to watch women play in the ocean who'd obviously lost their sanity. 

When we finally pulled ourselves out of the Gulf , dripping, sand pasted past our ankles, and still choking with laughter,  we came away wiser and somehow younger than we went in.

And what happens at the Wanna Wanna, sometimes doesn't always stay at the Wanna Wanna. 

*I promised not to use their real names.  

Claim to Fame

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