Gray Tubs, Gray Skies and Gray Hair

It's weird to walk around in your bare feet in front of strangers.

It's also weird and kind of squishy to put shampoo in plastic baggies.

Further, it's weird that all of the tubs at any airport security checkpoints are gray. I wonder if the manufacturers had an abundance of gray-colored polymers or if there's a specific reason for it. Anyone know?

So, today's airport experience was ridiculously cliché. My departure from San Fran was delayed for a couple of hours and no one wanted to tell us why. A lot of rudeness and vastly overpriced cheese fries.

I'd just about accepted that if I got to Atlanta, my connecting flight—the last one of the day—would probably have left. Sleeping on the floor of the Atlanta airport started to seem like a viable option.

I was okay with the delay and possible slumber party with strangers because I wasn't entirely sure I was going to have enough money to get my car out of the airport parking lot at Ronald Reagan. The longer I was stuck in Airportland, the longer I put off paying my $150 parking tab.

Of course, it also meant I was racking up additional parking charges, so that plan sort of bit me in the ass, but shurt urp.

The good news is that I've made it home, and it's only 4:30 a.m. Also, for some mystical reason, the parking guy's machine accepted my debit card even though I am positively positive that I didn't have the money in my account. I will worry about that tomorrow. Does anyone know of a good plasma donation site?

Yeah. I'm all growed up and mature-like, flying across the country with about $40 in my bank account.

I had a lot more in there until last night, but I lost it somewhere in San Francisco. Along with some of my brain cells and a really rad lipstick that fell out of my purse in the cab.

On the upside, during the first long wait in San Fran, I had one of the best crab rolls in my life, courtesy of Klein's Deli. If you're ever at the SFO airport near gate 36, do stop by.

The second long wait in Atlanta wasn't nearly as much fun, though I did buy some Barbecue Corn Nuts.

The flashing lights and beeps and airport frenzy definitely took their toll, though. My mind is even foggier from the time change and the perpetual hangover and the 14-hour days spent talking to people about which publication will help them best fund their retirement, not to mention the fact that, this week, I found myself extremely attracted to a 48-year-old man.

I'm 26, kids. This is new for me. I typically have a 10-year rule that I've never even come close to exercising. No worries here, though—he's the married one who wanted to "rake his hands through my flowing red hair," which #1Laura pointed out was strange verbiage.

When he first said it, I was staring at his distinguished silver hair and gloomily handsome face and thought, "That is an incredibly sexy notion."

But a little contemplation makes me think that "rake" probably wasn't the best word choice. In any case, I'm feeling a little out of sorts for many reasons, the least of which is my broke/potentially stranded status.

In the Comments section, tell me about an interesting airport experience you've had. The winner of the best story gets a crab roll from Klein's Deli and the chance to rake their fingers through my red hair.