Another plane just took off and it’s not mine. So far in between the French Open, CNN Election coverage, the Braves game, and the European Futball Championship I’ve counted 79 planes that have taken off. 79 planes and none of them are mine.

There’s an empty shot of vodka in front of me, I don’t consider myself a morning drinker, but Utah is one of those strange states that makes you think that you might be in a Twilight Zone episode where the overly friendly people with the big heads and wide eyes aren’t really people but aliens that are trying to lure you into their secret temple where they’ll zap your brain and make you into one of them.

Of course, maybe I’m over reacting. Maybe my mind is a little warped because right now I’m Tom Hanks in Terminal. I’ve been sitting in the Salt Lake City Airport since eight this morning and it’s now two o’clock and I have another three more hours till my flight for Los Angeles leaves.

But waiting isn’t bad. I’ve been to the same restaurant twice. The old woman at the newsstand let me exchange the magazines that I’ve already bought and read for new ones. The one armed Gulf War vet working at Brookstones let me take a nap on the massage chair, and I’ve been getting a kick out of waiting at other people’s terminals and seeing them off.

For some reason I feel content here. I’m in a self inflicted holding pattern with no rush to get back to Los Angeles; where I’m single, alone, struggling to figure out my career, life, me.

So I’m sitting here in the airport, waiting, watching the planes take off, counting down my departure to reality.

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