No stranger to flying cross-country, I’m quite keen on red-eyes when I travel west to east. I don’t know about you, but if I’m going to lose 3 hours of my life, I’d rather be sleeping. Bearing that in mind, why I still dress to impress is beyond me.
The issue with most airlines is they don’t always offer direct flights so you wind up sitting laying over in a terminal in god knows what airport (likely Chicago or Atlanta) at 4:11 in the morning and you look (and feel) like a strung-out homeless man due to lack of sleep, and greasy hair from the head rest. Plus, Starbucks isn’t open.
Leaving my childhood home for New York, I knew it was going to be difficult to sleep on this flight form the pure, unadulterated excitement about my big move into the professional working work in fuh-reakin New York Citay. I stake my claim in seat 18C (god bless advance seating selection in online check-in), an aisle seat because I prefer the option to easily get up and out of my seat than sleep easier against the window, which vibrates and makes your head bounce anyway. And whoever requests the middle seat who clearly checked in at the kiosk is shit out of luck – I’m not giving them the armrest just because they got stuck riding bitch seat…should’ve check it earlier, guy.
First to sit down, I don’t put my seatbelt on (classic rookie mistake) in anticipation of lord knows who’s about to grace me with their presence. Remembering seat numbers is a god given gift that only I must attain because everyone always looks from their ticket, to me to the number above my head like they’re sure I misread my ticket and am in their seat.
A foreign family approaches my area. Using my acute language sensing power, I narrow my options to Dutch or German. The mother walks to my row, pointing at the window seat managing “there, please (pronounced po-leece)” while her husband and daughter hang back a few rows up. I felt a pang of guilt, almost offering the rest of her family to trade my seats for theirs so they could sit together when my super sharp language sensing powers detect more foreigners around me…..I am suddenly aware that I am the 1%. At least 5 rows deep, both in front and behind me are Dutch, possibly German tourists.
Excuse me, stewardesses? Yes, I’d like 3 Xanax, please. Do you take Visa?
When the stewardess announces we’ve hit 10,000 and all approved electronic devices that can be found in the pamphlet in the seat pocket in front of us can be used, the fine fellow next to me unleashes his seatbelt in a Hulk-like manner. In one swift movement, he’s kneeling next to me, using my armrest for balance (naturally) and chatting with his female riding bitch seat in my row.
I don’t know where the damn beverage service is but I need a stiff drink like 4 days ago because these two have lost any and all awareness that I exist. Hoping the conversation will be quick, I realize how wrong I am when the mans arms relocate to my thigh and the middle armrest. ALL I WANT IS TO BE IN MY OWN FANTASY WORLD READING 50 SHADES OF GREY – my Christian Grey is not a stout, unshaven, capri-wearing, paperboy-cap-donning, double-hoop-earring wearing Dutch or possibly German.
I know the European culture is less concerned about spatial awareness, but there was zero acknowledgement of my existence.
I have no idea how much time passed I’d fallen asleep with his arm in my lap. I admit, I am a fan of body contact, and clearly I was desperate for some.