Written at 30,000 feet, please excuse typos and grammatical errors. My two brain cells don’t function well with low oxygen.
So I’m sitting on a plane riding back to Dallas after being in Tallahassee for less than 24 hours. I flew out of Atlanta, which is a cluster$&%^ adventure in itself. Atlanta airport, please die and fall off the planet, thanks.
I literally ran from one side of the terminal to the next terminal practicing my best Hunger Games survival techniques dodging all the slow people meandering down the dang walkway.
Ain’t nobody got time for that.
Finally, I huff and puff my fat ass to the gate and I’m the 3rd from last person to sit down in my seat, which has conveniently been reassigned to an exit row. Hallelujah, extra leg room! It’ seems that putting up with all the crappy flights in my life have finally thrown some good karma my way. It’s like sharing half a seat, not a row, a seat with an extremely wide old dude with a body odor and gas problem was my saving grace.
But seriously, exit rows scare the crap out of me. I spend the majority of my day avoiding responsibility, so to be in a position where I’m potentially holding the lives of others in my hands freaks me to hell out. But there were no other seats available and I’m anxious to get home and to get back to my boring life. I miss my kids. I even miss the crappy parts of parenting when I’m away, like making school lunches and checking for poop. It’s the little things…
I’m also soooooo thirsty. Since my first flight into ATL was late and I had no time to stop, my mouth felt like it had been baking in the hot miserable Atlanta sun. Let me tell you, I’ve never been more excited to see a beverage cart coming down the aisle before in my life. God bless you, flight attendant. I’m also getting that snack-y tummy growl because my blood sugar has crashed and burned since the cinnamon and sugar pretzel I had for lunch. (Whatever, I do what a want.) Delta gives you a choice between a small package of peanuts, pretzels, and cookies. Why they don’t give you all three, I don’t understand. You know airlines these days, so freaking stingy. But for serious, you guys, my economy class ticket cost $700, and it doesn’t even include a scratchy pillow or back rub or something. The cart finally comes by and I get my diet coke, because obviously, and my one teeeny tiny bag of peanuts. It’s like a joke size, like something you’d see Chris Farley try to open on SNL. I open the tiny plastic blag to find a measly five nuts inside. I’m pretty sure my stomach was either laughing at me or was growling in disgust. It’s hard to distinguish.
I think that if you’re asking people to basically ensure the successful survival or an entire freaking plane of people, they should throw you a feast, I’m talking like a kings feast with eight different kinds of desserts, tiny cucumber sandwiches and all you can eat shrimp cocktail. I want a steak for my possible heroism. I want to main it rain peanuts just like Rhianna and dollar bills in a strip club, but no…
“Enjoy the extra leg room,” the flight attendant said.