Y'all don't mess with it, ya hear?

Next time I’m planning a trip, will someone please remind me NOT to schedule an 8am flight. 8am flights require a 6am wake up. And a 6am wake up requires that I be grumpy for the rest of the day. Even if that day includes a trip to Mexico.

“I’ll just sleep on the plane,” is the myth with which I con myself repeatedly, forgetting that I can hardly sleep in my own bed, much less while sitting straight up next to an old man who laughs out loud at every cheesy sitcom joke from the “Two and a Half Men” episode showing on the small airplane screen.

After a sleepless first leg, I’m now at the Houston Airport wasting time between flights. I’m sitting in the most uncomfortable seats furthest from the giant airport window. These seats are marked “Passengers with Special Needs,” strangely appropriate for me, handicapped by my own dependence on an electrical outlet to plug in my laptop.

The worst thing about the Houston Airport, aside from the fact that it’s named the George Bush Airport (gag) is not how the people here speak. It’s the way I speak when I’m around them – adopting their thick southern drawl as if it’s been dormant inside of me all my life, and was simply hiding throughout my Northern California upbringing.

They probably think I’m making fun of them. Or worse, they think I’m actually from here. I have no idea where it comes from, but I find myself drawing out half my vowels, the questioning lilt of the South weaving itself throughout my syllables as if I done come from these parts.

It infuriates me and yet I can’t seem to control it, my speech has a life of its own. And it only happens when I’m in the South. My voice adopted none of the charming British accent when traveled through England, nor the sexy Scottish Brogue during my year abroad in Scotland.

Nope, just the slow, idiotic cadence of our nation’s president. Can ya’ll believe that?