The airplane was so tiny, it could be called a sardine can. my fourteen inch wide carry-on was banging against the seats as I dragged it behind me. I had become intimate with the two seat on the left, one on the right commuter plane. Even at my diminutive height of five foot two, I managed to smack my head on an over head bin. Up until now, all super small planes I’d flown on were short and wide, not super narrow.
This must be how sailor a submarine feel. I do loves me a man in a sailor uniform. But that’s another story.
As I was fighting with my recalcitrant case, banging along after me. A ray of hope entered the darkness. A cowboy booted foot protruding out in the isle. A cowboy, too tall for his seat. Cowboys always offer help to a woman in distress.
As I slugged closer to immediate help, I notice a harlequin pattern painted on the boot. My stomach began to sink. When I got close enough to realize it was puffy paint, my stomach hit bottom. And not just puffy paint, he had bedazzled his belt to match his boots. This was no cowboy, it was a fauwboy (a faux cowboy).
He didn’t offer to help me with my case. He didn’t even look me in the eye.
Hot and sweaty, struggling down the isle I continued. Then I saw another ray of hope, a cowboy hat way in the back, near my seat. In the row so far back, if they’d have to strap me in the toilet to get me any closer to the rear of the plane.
My seat was finally in reach. Someone would help me heft my case into the overhead bin. I turned with a forlorn look of desperation. His hat was tied to his head with strings. STRINGS TYING ON HIS HAT. This was no cowboy.
Cowboys do not paint their boots, bedazzle their belts, or need to tie their hats on. Cowboys wear worn boots, real leather, silver belt buckles, jeans without bling and finally, cowboys know how to treat women like ladies.
This is why I loves me a cowboy.
And a sailor
Any man in military uniform.
Texas Ranger, which goes without saying.