I Have a Fear of Not Flying
This is what happens when you take 120 flights a year. You begin to think that life would be better if you were always in the air. Life is ordered and predictable in the air. I know that the assortment of warm nuts will arrive along with my cocktail. I know that shortly thereafter, I will press a hot towel against my face, and thoroughly knead it with my hands. I like to get between all the fingers, and then fold it into a triangle. I think the flight attendents like the triangle, and they should have a preference for the strongest figure in geometry rather than the crumpled, pathetic offerings from the other passengers.
I have another cocktail.
I read. I blow through the abcedarian crossword puzzle in the American Way magazine in the seat-back pocket in front of me. I eat my entree, and pass on the bread. I bemoan the state of the salt and pepper which comes in small waxpapaer packets now, instead of the plastic shakers of yore. When the personal cheese pizza from Pizzaria Uno is served, I gingerly cut it with my flimsy utensils, because the fork will break if I am too forceful.
I have another cocktail.
When my tray is removed, I replace the tray-table in the armrest, and brush the crumbs off of my shirt. The cloth napkins have a buttonhole in one corner, so you can hang them from the top of your shirt and protect your clothing from the sub-par marinara, or the chocolate sauce on the sundae I don't eat. But still, the crumbs get through. Crumbs, it seems, are like love; they always find a way. I pull my book back out and begin to read once again. My firm charges it's clients, in accordance with local rules, for travel time. One half hourly rates for the time to and from the airport, and in the air. If I'm working in the air, I naturally bill at my full rate. However, this seldom occurs. It costs $140/hour to fly me somewhere. I'm worth it though.
I have another cocktail.
I use the rest room as we begin our descent in the the metro New York area. The bathroom is small, and I am large. Airplane bathrooms can tell you a lot about human nature. The bathroom in the first class cabin is for first class passengers only. This designation means nothing behaviorally, as someone has undoubtedly peed all over the seat and floor. Someone has pulled all of the paper hand towels out of the dispenser and scattered them across the countertop, the sink, and the floor. First class? Classless. I was my hands thoroughly because airplanes are very dirty things, and absolutely teeming with germs. I return to my seat. We drop below 10,000 feet and I turn off my portable electronic devices. It is night, and New York looks like fireworks from above. I could see my old apartment building, but now my building is small and unlit. But I like it better that way. I see this every week. For five years now. It still entrances me.
Some flight attendents will serve me one more cocktail for landing.
We touch down and I turn on my phone as we taxi. There is a message from my car service with the car number that I will look for on the pink sign in the window of the black Lincoln in the outermost lane of passenger pickup, closest to the parking lot. We stop. The seatbelt sign is turned off and I prepare all of my carry-on belongings. I put my ipod back on. I put my phone in my front pocket, my wallet in my back pocket, and the ipod in the breast pocket of my coat. I collect my goods and de-plane. I move briskly through the terminal and out to my car. I always wear my seatbelt. In 20 minutes we pull up in front of my apartment.
It's late Friday night, and I'll be doing the opposite trip early Monday morning.
To tell you the truth. I'm getting bored of this.
Hugs and Kisses,
numbers
This is what happens when you take 120 flights a year. You begin to think that life would be better if you were always in the air. Life is ordered and predictable in the air. I know that the assortment of warm nuts will arrive along with my cocktail. I know that shortly thereafter, I will press a hot towel against my face, and thoroughly knead it with my hands. I like to get between all the fingers, and then fold it into a triangle. I think the flight attendents like the triangle, and they should have a preference for the strongest figure in geometry rather than the crumpled, pathetic offerings from the other passengers.
I have another cocktail.
I read. I blow through the abcedarian crossword puzzle in the American Way magazine in the seat-back pocket in front of me. I eat my entree, and pass on the bread. I bemoan the state of the salt and pepper which comes in small waxpapaer packets now, instead of the plastic shakers of yore. When the personal cheese pizza from Pizzaria Uno is served, I gingerly cut it with my flimsy utensils, because the fork will break if I am too forceful.
I have another cocktail.
When my tray is removed, I replace the tray-table in the armrest, and brush the crumbs off of my shirt. The cloth napkins have a buttonhole in one corner, so you can hang them from the top of your shirt and protect your clothing from the sub-par marinara, or the chocolate sauce on the sundae I don't eat. But still, the crumbs get through. Crumbs, it seems, are like love; they always find a way. I pull my book back out and begin to read once again. My firm charges it's clients, in accordance with local rules, for travel time. One half hourly rates for the time to and from the airport, and in the air. If I'm working in the air, I naturally bill at my full rate. However, this seldom occurs. It costs $140/hour to fly me somewhere. I'm worth it though.
I have another cocktail.
I use the rest room as we begin our descent in the the metro New York area. The bathroom is small, and I am large. Airplane bathrooms can tell you a lot about human nature. The bathroom in the first class cabin is for first class passengers only. This designation means nothing behaviorally, as someone has undoubtedly peed all over the seat and floor. Someone has pulled all of the paper hand towels out of the dispenser and scattered them across the countertop, the sink, and the floor. First class? Classless. I was my hands thoroughly because airplanes are very dirty things, and absolutely teeming with germs. I return to my seat. We drop below 10,000 feet and I turn off my portable electronic devices. It is night, and New York looks like fireworks from above. I could see my old apartment building, but now my building is small and unlit. But I like it better that way. I see this every week. For five years now. It still entrances me.
Some flight attendents will serve me one more cocktail for landing.
We touch down and I turn on my phone as we taxi. There is a message from my car service with the car number that I will look for on the pink sign in the window of the black Lincoln in the outermost lane of passenger pickup, closest to the parking lot. We stop. The seatbelt sign is turned off and I prepare all of my carry-on belongings. I put my ipod back on. I put my phone in my front pocket, my wallet in my back pocket, and the ipod in the breast pocket of my coat. I collect my goods and de-plane. I move briskly through the terminal and out to my car. I always wear my seatbelt. In 20 minutes we pull up in front of my apartment.
It's late Friday night, and I'll be doing the opposite trip early Monday morning.
To tell you the truth. I'm getting bored of this.
Hugs and Kisses,
numbers
VIEW 25 of 47 COMMENTS
I owe you a snowball, sir.
lilyk said she gets to come visit you in a week or two. How exciting! I would be exceptionally jealous, but for the snow. I saw it for the first time earlier this year and decided that, while pretty, I didn't much like it. That may have been the bronchitis I caught talking though.