There are certain things that baffle me.
Decaf coffee drinkers.
And those who lack the travel etiquette gene.
You’d think that most people on their way to Maui would be happy (give or take a crying baby or a cranky flight attendant that you make the unfortunate mistake of calling stewardess); perma-grins plastered across their faces; visions of Mai Tais dancing in their heads; their biggest anxiety over how early to wake up to claim the much coveted umbrella-covered pool chairs or figuring out which drink would cause less bloating– a beer or a Bloody Mary.
Or maybe that’s just me?
On the morning of our flight to Maui, I had a pep in my step even as I bounded *gag* barefoot through security and then spent the next five minutes frantically searching for my ID that I thought I’d lost for the SEVENTEENTH time that morning! Sorry, Matt! (See anal traveler disclaimer, below.)
As I maneuvered my way through LAX, I looked around through my Maui colored glasses and all of the usual airport drama was lost on me.
So what if it took the cashier at Hudson News six and a half minutes to ring me up for TIC TACS!
Oh well if the Starbucks line was wrapped around the corner, they were out of sugar free vanilla AND they forgot to give me my apple bran muffin!
Too bad that a whitehead somehow popped up on my face between the walk from the airport shuttle to the gate!
Because in five and a half short hours, I’d be belly up at the Hula Grill bar inhaling coconut calamari. I was going to Maui, baby! And nothing, I repeat, nothing, was going to get me down!
Well, until I boarded the plane.
Those aforementioned glasses started to fog up just a wee bit as I was bombarded with airplane colleagues who seemed quite a bit less happy to be on team “bound for Maui.”
Exit Row Nazi a.k.a. The Angry Guy OMG- Last time I checked, you didn’t own the bulk head/exit row, dude. And maybe it wasn’t your problem that I read the airplane map wrong and poor 6’2” Matt and I ended up crammed in the row directly behind the exit row instead of in it. But when, by the grace of the travel gods, the seat next to you remained empty after we were told to turn off “anything with an on/off switch”, I took it as a sign. Matt could sit there! And I didn’t have to spend the next five hours obsessing about my mistake and instead could focus on far more important matters like immersing myself in my Bride Wars iTunes rental.
Not if the Exit Row Nazi had anything to say about it.
I kindly asked you if Matt could move into the empty seat next to you (more as a formality, than as an actual request-BTW) and you snidely replied that you “liked your space” and your answer was “no!” WTH crawled up your ass? You were already in the Holy Grail of economy class seating. You already had four freakin’ feet in front of you–more leg room than someone in first class. You really wanted more?
Ever the negotiator, I didn’t give up. I decided to appeal to your height. Surely you’d feel bad that another tall guy had his knees shoved up under his chin? Not. The tall plea was absolutely lost on you. You were just bound and determined to be angry guy.
Well angry guy, you f***ed with the wrong girl.
Because somehow you managed to IRRITATE me while I was trying so hard to bask in my Hawaiian, euphoric glow. And nobody f***ks with my glow!
And I was more than done with you because saying NO to giving us that seat was not the first time your angriness had reared its ugly head.
Remember when you crammed your tattered, brown leather bag into the overhead bin and shoved my new, sassy Tory Burch beach bag to the back– annoyed because somehow I didn’t get the memo that the space was reserved for you? And need I remind you of when I tapped your shoulder and said, “sir, sir, excuse me sir” simply to let you know that your pillow was jammed in my tray table–and you acted as if I was asking you to hold my tampon box?
So, when you told me that my man could not move into a seat that–incidentally–you did not own, that was it. I decided to go over your head and I told on you! I asked the flight attendant if Matt could take that seat and she said, “yes!”
So, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!!
The Barefoot Guy
The fact that you could walk into that airplane bathroom without even so much as socks on your feet, made me want to pull out my barf bag and puke my six dollar, pre-packaged turkey and pesto sandwich into it. For the love of God, my friend, couldn’t you have at least put on a freakin’ flip flop, if not for your own sake, then for mine?! No one should have to even THINK ABOUT what you were stepping on in there. No one. I wish I had your address because I’d send you a vat of antibacterial gel. Although I’m not even sure a case of Purell would help anyone after that. I feel like I need to be hosed down like a prison inmate after just walking in there.
The Chatty Cathy
Remember when I mentioned my Hawaiian euphoric glow? Well, that didn’t mean I was so happy that I was going to be your in-flight entertainment. Watch a movie. Play Solitaire. Count Sheep. Anything. Because there was no way, especially after angry guy, that I could even fake interest in the story of how you were supposed to go to Mexico and stay in a five star resort, but changed your trip because you were petrified of contracting the swine flu. You made me want to put on surgical mask and start coughing just to get you off my jock. Didn't you understand that Anne Hathaway and Kate Hudson were waiting?
The Frustrated Flight Attendant
Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed the envelope and asked you for a pen to fill out my agricultural clearance form after I’d already asked you to take sides in my battle with angry guy. (Although, for the record, you chose very, very wisely!) I kind of get why you’d have a short fuse because you probably have to deal with so much shit on every flight that this blog post represents every day fodder for you. I can’t imagine how, flight after flight, you put up with the call button whores; the “I’m going to get drunk on little bottles of booze” boozers; the people who put TWO bags in the overhead bin; the people who refer to you as stewardess.
Or maybe those things just bother me?
But I mostly can’t understand how you can physically deal with that much air travel because (TMI alert) just ONE flight can completely jack me up–for days. So, I wouldn’t want to share my pen either… if I had to use that bathroom and then couldn’t use that bathroom, if you know what I’m sayin’…
ANAL TRAVELER DISCLAIMER: Because I got up on my 30,000 foot high soap box, it’s time for full-disclosure. I have a major case of traveler’s OCD. I definitely bring new meaning to the word anal when I travel.
Imagine a Type A, overly caffeinated, Aries on crack.
I have many "day of" travel rules. I must print my boarding pass at home. On the way to the airport, I can’t have a conversation about anything un-airport related because I have “I must make my flight” tunnel vision until I get to the gate. Until I’m on the plane (and sometimes, even after), I check, re-check and check again that my ID is in my wallet. (Again, Matt, sorry about when I almost turned the car around because I thought I’d left it in my wallet–on top of my car!) I must stop at Starbucks on the way to the airport AND after I go through security because I love my coffee and I read somewhere that you should never order it on an airplane. (Although I’m not sure if that’s even true & if it is, I can’t remember why you shouldn’t.) I have to be at the gate one hour before departure. (I have access to the Admiral’s Club, but can’t really relax when I’m in there because I’m worried about losing track of time!) And those are just the MAIN rules.
But at the end of the day, if something isn’t going right on the morning of my flight, I’m not going to make you pay if I’m cranky.
That’s what my travel partner is there for!
Just kidding! (Sort of!)