I was dropped off at the airport. Alone. But not anxious. At first. Let’s be clear, it’s not being dropped off, saying goodbye, or dragging your luggage around that makes flying hard. It’s the walking into the airport. Questions like:
Where should I print my ticket?
What if I try to check in at the wrong spot and end up looking like an idiot?
What if I go through security and they say, “No ma’am, we can’t let you through because you look nothing like your ID.”
Worse, they say, “I’m sorry, we only accept passports as acceptable ID’s no matter where you are going.”
And if you get through security, your mind decides to take over again with a line of thought much more rational than the first:
Me: Here I am, at Gate 22. Just where my ticket says I should be.”
My Mind: Double check you might be blind or something and it’s not Gate 22.
Me: No, self. Listen, I’m staring at the number. It’s a 22.
My Mind: Are you sure the ticket is right?
Me: Well… no, but—
My Mind: You need to double check. You don’t want to get on a plane headed for New York when you want to go to Las Vegas.
Me: Yes, Mind, you are so right. I will go double check with the lady up front.
You’d think the plane would be the scary part. No. Getting on the plane means I’ve made it. Three Small Facts about Planes:
It is more likely that my boyfriend would kill me than I’d die in a plane crash.
It is far more likely for me to be in a bank robbery than to die in a plane crash.
It is even more likely that I will be in a car accident and die than be in a plane crash.
BONUS FACT: It is more likely for all three of these things to happen than for me to be in a plane crash.
Woman: Please, I need to put a family together.”
Me: Of course.
After getting a new ticket, I got in line. This time, I was in group 2. Which was fine except that I wish I’d been in group 2 in the first flight and been able to load my luggage. But whatever. The two guys behind me had a conversation about, you know, Vegas. It went something like this:
Dude 1: If you play like that at a Casino everyone is going to hate you’re a**.
Dude 2: I don’t really care if I’m winning.
Next person I saw was a very sick looking Asian. His eyes all puffy and looking as if he had a fever. I was disgusted for a second because I was going to have to breath his air circulated over and over for the next 2 hours. But, I quickly recovered because I remembered that I was bringing my cold turned sinus infection, turned upper respiratory infection with me on the plane as well. He’d have to breath my air just as much as I’d breath his. Fair is fair. We boarded the plane and I knew I had a middle seat. Please, Lord, send me two women to sit on either side of me was my prayer. The Lord did not giveth. No. The first man to walk up was long haired, carrying a hello kitty bag complete with an array of colorful travel bags. He was a chunky, smelly, old guy. And by smelly, I mean, due to the whole cold turned sinus infection, turned upper respiratory infection, I couldn’t smell much, but I could smell this man. Usually, you can get away from a bad smell. Not a plane. Nope. You’re stuck. And you can’t say, “Hi flight attendant, give me a new seat,” without being rude and inconsiderate. So, I sat there, for over two hours, and tried not to smell too hard. My other neighbor: Also, a man. This one was normalish. I think. I’m not sure. All I know is he had a weird amount of flower pictures on his phone that he kept looking at and two little girls (who I guess are his daughters but no wife because there was no ring).