I'm sitting at an airport restaurant in Toronto between flights, eating tikka masala.
I don't think I even like tikka masala. I enjoy it every once in while, but will only seek it out maybe once a year. Weird cravings these days... No, not pregnant.
I say this not to insult the entire cuisine of a region, but to illustrate how out of place things feel.
It's the beginning of December, I'm supposed to be at work. 9-5. Or is it 7-7? Either way.
But here I am. At the airport. At the restaurant dedicated to Grey Goose(?!) with extremely cheesy decor, inundated with announcements in French, sitting behind a guy that has "Death Racer" defined on the back of his shirt.
It's life dictating for you. It's something else guiding you. Outside of your control.
And somehow you are there. Like you have arrived and not sure what else is to come.