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September 25, 2007
The Art of the Huff
In the last few days I've learned a little something about leaving in a huff. Sometimes it's been me ("Good day sir—I said good day!") and sometimes it's been directed at me ("good fucking night, whore"), but what has become glaringly apparent is that no matter who does it, and for what reasons, there are few things that scream "drama queen" like a huffy departure.
As I sit here in my swanky hotel room in New Orleans, tucked into a bed overflowing with pristine white pillows, and watching a Next Top Model marathon, it strikes me that the time and place for such hysterics is in reality television—and I tend to avoid those shows for a reason.
That said, I *would* have left in a huff from the plane today when I got stuck next to the most obnoxious man alive. He talked on his cell phone from the minute he boarded the plane, through the welcome announcements, and only turned off the phone when the flight attendant came back for the second time. He monopolized the armrest, TURNED ON HIS CELLPHONE MID FLIGHT TO SEND A TEXT MESSAGE, asked for double the usual complimentary snacks, and declined to pull his seat back up when we were landing. That, and he had his seatbelt off the entire time. And once the plane landed, he was back on the phone giving whoever had the unfortunate luck of being on the other end of the line sweeping directions and making arrogant pronouncements.
If I could have figured out a way to do it, I would have pushed him out into thin air and considered it a service to humanity. That's the kind of huff that still has a place in my book.
