Panic In The Skies

Hi friends.

Sorry about that brief delve into topics better left for the sides of trailers.

I made him promise never to “surprise” me with a post again.

If he does I might just leave him at the door-stoop of aforementioned trailer.  Let the creepy old man have his way with the hijacking husband.

Moving right along though.

I have pictures (I promised, didn’t I?) from the Polar Express.

They’re forthcoming.

But I have to first tell you about my flight coming home yesterday.

The one where every single person in my vicinity was left with no choice but to write me off as a crazy woman.  For real.

I don’t fly well.  Never have.

I’m not exactly scared of flying.  I just have difficulty with the lack of control air travel entails.

I enjoy being able to stop at my whim.  Pull over for Starbucks.  Leave when I’m ready to leave – as opposed to when Air Traffic Control sees fit.  Use a bathroom with fewer than six gazillion germs and Lord-only-knows-what-else floating around in there.

Makes sense, right?

So I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the extra long flight to Orlando, and the extra long flight home about 24 hours later.

I was pleasantly surprised with how well I handled the first flight.  It flew by (pun intended) and I was on the ground before I knew it.  Easy peasy.

The next day?  Eh.  Not so much.

I got a middle seat.  On a full flight.  And all three of the inconsiderate ahem, passengers (because I’m ladylike and the word I’d prefer to use is anything but) in the row in front of mine opted to recline their seats.  To the full extent.  Which was lovely.  And so very thoughtful of them.

But even then, I was okay.

I thought I’d pull out my laptop, in hopes that I could do something to help pass the time.

So I retrieved my computer and released the tray table.  I totally should win some medal since I had to contort myself like Mary Lou Retton in order to do so.

That’s when it happened.

With my tray table down, a person tucked closely in at either side, my seat-belt fastened, and the passenger in front of me practically lying in my lap, I sort of freaked.  Claustrophobia type freak.

I wasn’t all that patient in asking that the woman in the aisle seat move so that I could getoutofthisseatRIGHTNOW.

There wasn’t far to go of course.  Not much fresh air to be had.

So I settled for the rotten sewage-esque air the rear of the plane near the lavatory provided.

Which was a million times better than the chamber of death in which I’d previously been confined.

But I couldn’t stay back there forever.  And that knowledge made me freak even more.

I may have cried.  And incessantly chewed on my fingers, fists, knuckles, and the thumb drive I’d been prepared to put into my laptop.

I may even have begged the flight attendant for an aisle seat.  Any aisle seat.  At any cost.

To no avail though.

She proposed instead that maybe I kindly request that the passenger in front of me raise her seat.

Which I really didn’t want to do.

But once I’d returned to my seat I did it anyway.

Very nicely, I might add.

Her response wasn’t nearly as nice.

In fact, she was downright rude.  With eyebrows raised she let out an exaggerated sigh before inclining her seat maybe 1/4 inch (if I’m being generous), replacing her headphones and returning her attention to the movie she’d been watching.  The moment she’d resumed the movie-watching wouldn’t you know that seat just fell right back into place.  Go figure.

And yes.  I had explained to her that I was experiencing a bit of a panic attack triggered by claustrophobia and that it would help me immensely if she’d just sit upright.

I didn’t think it was asking too much, under the circumstances.  I guess that’s just me though.

Luckily there was a super sweet gentleman, Ozzie, sitting next to me in the window seat.

He sensed my panic (not that it was cloaked in any way, shape, or form) and he started small talk.  And even when at first I could offer little more than fragmented, panicked responses he didn’t let up.  He just kept on talking and talking and talking.  And intermittently apologizing for “not shutting up.”

Only he wasn’t talking in a won’t-shut-up kinda way.  He was just being nice.  Nice enough to help demented me breathe easy again.  So nice that within thirty or so minutes I felt 100% better.  The wine I ordered during beverage service may have helped too.  But mostly it was Ozzie.

Eventually I was able to carry on an actual conversation, as opposed to the frantic ramblings of a crazed person.  I learned all about his quaint hometown in the Midwest.  He gave me an impromptu history lesson on subjects near and dear to him: the Badlands, Wild Bill Hickok, and Calamity Jane.  He told me about his wife of nineteen years and their only daughter.  We even swapped stories of deployments (mine from a spouse’s perspective, his from someone preparing for yet another).

Ozzie rocked.

The outrageously thoughtless lady in the seat in front of me?  Not so much.

I guess I’m too naive.  Naive enough to not understand the heartless actions of some of the people who walk this Earth.  There are those who are heartless through indifference. Narcissism.  Entitlement.  And another kind entirely, whose hurtful actions are seemingly premeditated.  Those who set out to cause pain.  For no good reason.

I’ll never understand those people.

And that’s probably a good thing.

I’d rather devote my attention to the Ozzies of the world.  Granted, they may be few and far between.  But the light that the Ozzies cast is widespread and far-reaching.

Even at 40,000 feet.