It was my last day of my vacation trip in India, and it may sound like the sad ending full of reluctance to return home, but I’m not, I’m thoroughly exhausted from ten spectacular days there and I am wholly satisfied. There isn’t anything more I can accomplish; no more sights for me to see, no more tourist attractions to be attracted to and no more historical sites I haven’t seen. I have done it all.
Thus I planned my last day to be a lazy day being a couch potato on a couch other than my own. India’s airport is decently tourist friendly and a home to a large array of comfy couches. I nestled myself in the splendid black upholstery of one near Starbucks and allowed it to cradle my sore bones. Then I flipped open my laptop and began to blog.
I fell back to my favorite habit when in public of eyeing the people around me to secretly, stalker-ly draw inspiration. I then caught sight of a lovely couple. The lady was dashing and the man was elegant. They seemed to be getting along very well, from what I have observed.
But all of a sudden, the woman shoo-ed the man away. It was an intriguing interaction, with the woman pushing and the man resisting and pulling. My curiosity got the better of me so I stood up and moved closer to the bar where they were, with baggage and laptop and all, all so I can
eavesdrop listen to their conversation better.
“I really am! I am not lying!! A man won’t be able to get to where I am today by lying.”
“OH PLEASE. Stop. I’ve had enough. Just go away.”
“I’m just asking if I can buy you one drink. That’s all.”
“No. Now, leave me alone, mister famous Harry or something.”
Then I realized that this guy is actually trying to pull off the pickup line similiar to the one in How I Met Your Mother, the one where Barney Stinson pretends to be someone famous in order to convince a girl to let him buy her a drink.
Now the reason behind the difference between the success Barney enjoyed and this horrendous rejection that slapped Mr. Famous Harry Something across the face was the wingman. A wingman is an accomplice, if you may, that assists the main man to woo the girl. In other words, he creates a desirable situation where the main man becomes more appealing. And right then and right there, I knew Mr. Famous Harry Something needed me.
So I walked over and went like this.
“Harry? Harry! Oh my goooood!!! Can I have an autograph? *fumbles for a piece of paper* You’re awesome. You’re my idol, man. Really. Keep up the good work, Harry!! I’m your number one fan! I’ve supported you through everything.”
(Gee, I am an awesome babbler.)
Then I turned my back to a very astounded and bewildered man, with his signature scrawled on the back of the receipt for my coffee, and marched off briskly towards my flight and away from that interaction that has somehow inconveniently sped up time. But before I turned the corner, I looked back and I saw Mr. Famous Harry Something surrounded by three beautiful women.