Expiration Dating Read Free

just stopping back on the way to my boyfriend’s palace in Italy.”
    Did the Italians use the phrase boyfriend?
    I planned to find out.
    My mind whirled for hours, but at some point I must have dozed off. I stirred awake, chilled to the bone and frozen in my seat. As I glanced out the window I tried lifting an arm to wipe my watery eyes. Both appendages were trapped by large men, and I felt more helpless than ever. I’d been dreaming about the birthday party I’d have had if I stayed in Minnesota. I laid my head against the pillow and felt sad for the first time. I let myself cry, tasting salt as the tears slid down my face.
     
    Hours later, we bumped down the runway and screeched to a stop. I rubbed my sore neck.
    W hy was everyone clapping?
    I joined in to not seem out of place. Since there was no explanation, I assumed it must be an Italian tradition to clap for the pilot. Isn’t it his job to get us grounded safely? If that was the case, I wanted applause next time I turned in a paper for biology.
    As the clapping calmed down, I strained my neck looking at the people sitting close by. I caught the eye of a curly haired man a few seats in front of me and he shrugged, appearing just as confused. I welcomed the company; we could be stumped together.
    I groaned when I stood , after what seemed like years on the runway. I’ve never understood why everyone stands up while they’re waiting to get out of the plane; there’s the awkward space under the overhead luggage storage that’s not tall enough to stand, not tall enough to sit, just tall enough to crouch and get a kink in your neck.
    To make the experience more pleasant, there were at least eight babies screaming while their mothers juggled strollers, baggage and husbands. During this unpleasant process, I made eye contact with the same American guy as before. He raised his eyebrows. The moment ended as traffic moved forward. He jumped to action and grabbed my suitcase from its compartment.
    “Have a great trip,” he said. I nodded and smiled, too exhausted to speak.
    “Come on , Andrew. What about my stuff?” whined his travel companion. I gave myself a pat on the back for kicking her seat. I eyed the suitcase in Andrew’s hands, a beautiful, light pink Louis Vuitton travel case. My dinged-up, army green piece of cloth paled in comparison.
    My gaze migrated to her two-hundred dollar jeans, designer rain boots and matching silk blouse; this girl traveled in style, I hated to admit. I wasn’t as subtle as I’d thought with my assessment; she returned the glance, giving my neon yellow Minnesota sweatshirt and running shorts a judgmental stare. The outfit must not qualify as proper flying attire according to her standards.
    Or maybe it was the large coffee stain I couldn’t manage to wash out. Bleach pens had been a major failure, leaving a brownish blob over the “ I ” in my shirt. Maybe they just didn’t work after letting the stain sit for a week and a half during finals. Either way, the jury was still out. I once heard that there are two types of people in this world: those that dress up to fly, and those that don’t. I was a proud supporter of the latter.
    After some more jostling and uncomfortable squeezes down the narrow aisle, I emerged into the airport lobby. I hadn’t expected the lunchtime bustle as my body felt it should be midnight. I spun in a slow circle, trying to get my bearings.
    I prayed for the excitement to hit me. You’re in Italy! You’re in Italy! The saying ran through my head like an Olympian on a track, but I just didn’t feel any different. I’d hoped there would be some ‘grand realization’ that I was in Italy, some overwhelming feeling of ecstasy. Instead, there was just exhaustion mixed with confusion.
    I talked myself down from a panic and located the baggage claim sign . I shuffled over and waited for the wheel to start pumping out oversized suitcases. Next to me, an Italian family welcomed an au pair, a young girl