I used to blame my drought on my astrological sign, which is Libra. They say that Libras can’t get along with anyone but themselves. But then two of my Libra girlfriends—excuse me, ex-girlfriends—went and got married last month, ruining a perfectly good excuse for why I was still single. So, now I’ve got a new excuse: the unusual way I was born. My parents were on a plane flying home to Baltimore from Aunt Sybil’s Seattle wedding when my seven months’ pregnant soon-to-be mother started feeling contractions. Momma said it was the air turbulence that sent her into early labor. Daddy said it was the inordinate amount of mixed nuts that she mixed with club soda and ice cream. Whatever the reason, during the most inappropriate time at nearly 20,000 feet in the air, her belches of indigestion turned into moans of contractions and out came me.

There I was in 14C, lying on a plastic tray table. Naked to the world and the rest of the passengers on our flight. Floating high above the clouds, Utah to the right, Idaho to the left. Since neither was a fitting name for their newborn daughter, my parents settled on Montana. Montana Christina Moore. Which also explains why I became a flight attendant. I’m most comfortable in the clouds. Closer to God. Closer to Heaven. Maybe just closer to God so that He can help me find Heaven, which is, of course, in the arms of a loving husband. Okay, so that’s my excuse and I’m sticking with it. And no matter how silly the excuse, if you’re a female member of the Moore family, you’d better have at least one of the two: the excuse or the husband.

In my family having a husband is like Math, English, and Social Studies: a requirement. Being happy is the elective. A husband is a symbol of accomplishment. A treasured trophy of honor. At the very least, a human shield with the power to deflect the constant nagging of my four-times-married mother, family matriarch, and self-proclaimed relationship referee.

“You know, eggs don’t last forever,” she would say at holiday get-togethers as the family nervously laughed at what was obviously not meant to be funny. “Even the ones at the grocery store have an expiration date stamped on the side.”