I hate traveling. Well, to be fair, I love going places, but I hate the process of actually getting there. For some reason, the traveling aspect of traveling just stresses me right out. Airports in particular make me feel super wonky. I find airport security to be quite intimidating, and knowing I'm about to clamber onto a giant chunk of heavy metal that will soon be miles above the safety of terra firma makes my stomach tie itself into knots.
Recently, my family and I went to Reno. We took off out of the John Wayne Airport in Orange County. With some time to kill before our flight, I decided books and beverages were neccessary to calm my jangling nerves.
We browsed the typical airport bookstore. It was filled with the typical airport bookstore goods: candy, nuts, magazines, dramamine, those awesome little neck pillows I always want but can never seem to bring myself to buy. All seemed well.
Until we went to the register to pay.
I found the monster pictured above hidden amongst a display of 3-D bookmarks. At first it seemed like we would escape his notice. My husband paid the nice lady and she bagged our items while I desperately tried not to breathe. Giraffes can smell fear as surely as any other great and fierce predator can. This one was no exception. I saw its nostrils flair as it sniffed the air. It blinked its beautiful long lashes and began to scan its surroundings, zeroing in on the delectable scent of my utter terror. I trembled as its eyes landed squarely on me.
Please, baby Jesus and Tom Cruise, I prayed. If you get me out of this alive I will devote my life to educating the masses on the very real dangers of these magnificent and ravenous beasts.
At first it seemed like the sweet baby Jesus and Tom Cruise had better things to do than listen to the prayers of one unnaturally beautiful young woman. I saw the giraffe tense its heavily muscled haunches, preparing to leap. The lady behind the counter, unaware of the danger, slowly counted out our change. My husband put his wallet away and I began to slowly inch away from the rapacious fiend before me. I didn't dare take my eyes off of it, I knew if I did I would be dead before my gorgeous, defiled body hit the filthy airport ground.
My husband turned and walked away, heedless of the precariousness of our situation. It took him several steps before he realized I wasn't at his side. "You coming or what?" he asked me, holding out his hand to me. I squeezed my eyes shut, sure this was the end of me, and stepped toward him, turning my back on the insatiable brute.
I could almost feel its razor sharp teeth slicing into the creamy, nubile skin of my back. The sheer weight of it as it fell on me would break all of my ribs. My last seconds, I knew, would be agonizing and indisputably terrible. Maybe it would leave my perfect visage unmarked so my family could at least have the blessing of an open casket funeral, that they may gaze upon my noteworthy beauty one last time.
But the anticipated blow never came.
As we scurried out of the shop, I turned to see the giraffe strike like a cobra at the woman who had been in line behind me. It bit savagely into her throat, again and again. She didn't even have time to scream as we hurried to our gate.
Giraffes 0, Jennifer 2
That was too close.
You. Are. Hilarious.
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