So here I sit at the start of our romantic week away, 40,000 feet in the air… I put untold hours into planning this trip for us; picking the perfect activities (not the least of which involves the Tabasco plant), finding fabulous hotels and the all-inclusive we’ll enjoy during the second leg of our journey, getting tickets for The Preservation Jazz Hall Band, researching eateries… Dan packed his bag.
As we boarded the plane 160th and 161st in line I still had the quirky travel hopefulness that lies in stark contrast to my day to day cynicism…
I’m currently enjoying 2/3 of my $243.76 seat, my right shoulder and arm forced into the neutral space of the aisle; next to a heavy-set woman with sinus troubles and flying-induced anxiety (are we taking off now? I hate take off. I’m scared, I DON’T FEEL GOOD ABOUT THIS!). Her heavier-set husband is doing a fine job of redirecting the sun off his tablet into my eye with each productive, hacking cough. And because grown, adult individuals have bladders incapable of holding the 1.7 ounces of liquid offered by the airline for 2.5 hours my right arm is being nudged every 48 seconds on average as they scurry to unload the massive burden (to be fair – each cup has 2 ice cubes… so… you know… that’s gotta be factored in to any liquid intake stats).
Meanwhile, Dan is 1/2 row back, across the aisle all smiles and joy; exchanging pleasantries with a tall lanky couple who are so enamored with each other they are folded into one seat.
Yep. The worst part of traveling is the actual traveling part. It’s absolutely in a germaphobe’s top ten least favorite things to do.
Dan leaned over and said, “damn I love looking at the stuff in the sky mall magazine but do you know how many people have touched that thing???”
What bum booked you those airline tickets?
hahaha some schlub I know….