I love travelling, but I hate the “getting there”. I would just like to appear at my chosen destination and take advantage of every moment I have outside of my real life. Unfortunately, my travel-reality is that I have to spend as little money as possible and quite often that means taking the most time possible to get somewhere. This is true for flying as well as driving.
Friday’s flight to Boston was really a flight to Newark, New Jersey, a short layover and then another flight to Boston. Once I landed in Jersey I had a slight panic attack at the realization that I was two terminals away from where I needed to be to board my second flight and I had only 10 minutes to get there. If you’ve never flown into Newark (because why would you?), don’t. The terminals are as far away from each other as they could possibly be and you have to take a train to get from one to another. Oh, and you have to go through security. Again. I took my belt off more times on Friday than has ever been necessary in my sex life. Mostly because I don’t wear belts when I plan to get sexy. But still…
I made it to the terminal on the other side of the world in time to stand in the cattle call line to board. Once on the plane I breathed a sigh of relief while noting that it was bigger than the puddle jumper I had just gotten off and thought maybe I wouldn’t have to do breathing exercises for the whole flight to stave off nausea. Instead, what I got was to sit in intimate closeness next to a 30-something man in camouflage and his young son. The man, standing over me in the aisle, asked his son with hopeful eyes: “Bud, do you want the middle seat (in an excited and very much ‘you totally want this seat’ voice) or do you want to have to sit by the window?” The kid didn’t take the bait and the man dejectedly took the middle seat, cementing our thighs together and creating an extremely uncomfortable vibe.
I wasn’t overly bothered by the closeness because, that’s just what happens on a tiny plane when you have a giant bum. I’m used to it. What I wasn’t prepared to deal with was his obvious discomfort at the situation. It’s like he thought we’d have to get married as a result. So, noticing that the adorable lady in the row across the aisle was all by herself with two empty seats, I asked her if she’d mind getting the hell out of my way so I could get away from Duck Dynasty and his son. She didn’t mind at all.
I part rolled, part stumbled into the window seat in her row and made a comment about not wanting to press my thigh against the strange man while I thanked her. She understood. In fact, she understood everything I ever thought or said. We had (almost) all the same opinions on everything in life. She was me, if I was skinny, hot, well-dressed and going to Harvard. I’m not hating on her hotness. In fact, I’m grateful for it. Her hotness got her (and me by extension) free mini-bottles of wine and a hilarious rapport with the flight attendant. Sitting in the back row pays off, as long as you’re sitting next to someone the flight attendant would like to have sex with. And boy did Freddie ever.
We chatted away the entire flight and most definitely annoyed the back half of the plane. Although, they’re all better off for hearing our commentary on Lena Dunham’s failed (albeit well-intentioned) attempts at feminism and an in-depth look at The Hunger Games. We made snarky comments and laughed at each other’s snarky comments so neither of us felt like a jerk. Even though we were definitely being jerks.
I knew she was legit when she didn’t even make fun of me for going all the way to Boston to see New Kids on the Block.