Fun fact: I hate flying. There is absolutely nothing fun about it. Turbulence is a nightmare. I know just about every way a plane can crash. Most of all, I loathe take-off. Zack and I were invited to visit his family one weekend in the July of 2009. I was excited to revisit the place I would future call home--until I found out we were flying.
“My dad offered to fly us up,” Zack said.
“Oh…that’s cool.”
He noted I lacked enthusiasm. What enthusiasm could I muster when I kept thinking of all the things I would need to take care of before my demise? At least my bed was made.
As was customary, Zack and I arrived as close to the minute as possible, being part of the last ten people to board the plane. We got to choose our seats, which meant all the people who had boarded before us had chosen seats with a buffer seat in between, leaving no place for us to sit together. I took the last seat in the back of the plane while Zack had to ask a woman to hold her baby instead of giving it a personal floatation device (you know, in case of emergency).
I was seated between a sports-nut who read Sports Illustrated the entire flight and a woman who, put delicately, left me half a seat. She had chosen that seat to be less of a burden, which I can admire, and I felt bad for imposing on her space. After the death riot I call take off, she pulled out a Cosmopolitan magazine, one I happened to carry also. I figured it would be a nice way to bond with her, an unspoken friendship, a way for me to say, “hey, we’re all in this together.” I’m sure she thought it said, “I’m going to stay on each page you do to freak you out.”
Later on in the flight, a flamboyant male flight attendant took our drink orders.
“Diet Coke,” the woman next to me ordered.
“D-Sprite. I will have a Sprite,” I blurted. I didn’t want her to think I was that creepy.
At last, at long last, we arrived at SeaTac. Landings I actually enjoy. The thrill of a controlled hurtling to the runway gives me reassurance I will live to die another day. I met up with Zack who described to me his flight, in which he sat next to a three-year old who sang the latest pop songs. I told him I held my arms at ninety degrees in front of me for two hours.
Since I had to settle for less-stalky Sprite, I darted to the bathroom. I settled into my booth and proceeded to, well, booth. I heard a woman walk in with her young son in tow. I normally don’t have a problem with mother’s bringing their little boys into a public restroom, but I do when said little boy takes a peek through slats in the door while I’m boothing. Zack found it hilarious, of course. I found it violating and annoying.
Later, at baggage claim, I saw the boy with his good-parenting deficient mother and, surprisingly, father. I pointed him out to Zack and swore vengeance.
The offer still stands.
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