I continue to be enamored with flying. Not the act of flying. It’s what you go through to get from destination A to destination B that I find utterly unbelievable.
My infatuation dawned on me as I began putting my clothes back on after going through security this past week at O’Hare airport. The woman in front of me stood right in front of the conveyor belt and fully got dressed, blocking my four containers of personal items, while she buckled her belt and tied her shoes. You don’t do that! You quickly grab your stuff and move away to a bench to regain your composure!
EVERYONE is at the airport! As I waited for the plane, I noticed a couple. He had purple hair, a tiger tattoo on his forearm and those huge holes in the lobes of his ears. His traveling partner, who he was holding hands with, seemed, by her dress and head frock, to be Amish. I am surprised, yet thankful, they found each other.
I discovered a corner, right in front of the China Kitchen, in the food court to eat. God bless the woman serving the customers. In the amount of time it took me to gobble up a turkey bagel and baked Layes, she told no less than 30 customers that they could have two meats, rice or lo mein, and a spring roll. Do the math. That’s is like 480 rice or lo meins in an eight hour shift. I could not work at an airport. All these people going on vacation, all day, every day, right in front of your face while you’re hashing out lo mein requests with purple haired, Amish people.
When I arrived at O’Hare two days before, the airplane taxied so long I thought they had decided to drop me at my hotel before delivering the other passengers at the terminal.
But on this day, I was so glad to head home that I didn’t even flinch at the broad shouldered guy in the middle seat beside me who, before I even got on the plane, took BOTH armrests. That seems unreasonable to me. He’s obviously addicted to pull ups. Unhealthy.
Before I put my phone in airplane mode, I always text my kids and Julie to tell them I love them. This is code for I think this plane could very possibly crash and I want you to know I love you in the event I don’t get home tonight.
I then plug in my headphones and shuffle my downloaded Spotify playlist. But I have a major fear that others around me can hear my music. I take an earphone out multiple times just to be sure. What if pull up man knows I’m listening to the boyband, One Direction, singing Steal My Girl? What would he think of me?
I try to sleep but there’s nothing to do with my head. I want a drink but then I’d have to pee. The narcoleptic woman in the aisle seat across from me is snoozing, with her mouth gaping open, before we even take off. That makes me so mad I want to shove something right between her upper and lower incisors. It would take me three Ambien, a sleep number bed, my loose elastic boxers and a long, hard Monday to sleep that well.
And besides, if I do doze off the flight attendant invariably runs into my knee cap with the drink cart which hurts. Apparently I spread my legs apart when I rest sitting up.
The guy next to me, with his elbow in my right pelvis, checks his email for work the entire trip home. That makes us all look bad on a Sunday afternoon. Why can’t he just pretend to sleep like me?
When I finally arrive back in Raleigh, I discover the airport authority has charged me $107 to park for two nights. Geeze.
Airports have the largest number of people in the world just sitting around tolerating. Tolerating, tolerating, tolerating.
The Real Fuller House 