My only crime was happiness, a level of joy that apparently offended the counter people greatly. When I greeted them and asked for help, they just stared at me. Nothing. No facial expression or movement or verbalization of any kind would even indicate that either of them saw me there or heard my request.
The problem with a good mood that is thinly veiling the misery of waking up at 5am is that the misery WILL show itself at some point. I said to the Delta associates who stood, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed before me,
"Are we not using our words today?"
Big mistake. They were in charge of assigning our seats and thus deciding if we would want to live or die by the end of the flight. They chose die.
The whole time we were waiting, there was this baby. She screamed non stop. I smiled and in a singsongy voice announced to my husband that baby cries don't bother me in the slightest! This is all part of my attempt to present myself as a prime candidate to have kids of my own, but probably just made me look insane. The fact is that baby cries do not upset me at all, as I assume that I will someday have to hope other people have patience with my crying baby. It's called empathy people. It didn't hurt that the mother and child were unwashed and appeared indigent, perhaps poor immigrants who have recently arrived to cash in on their rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Perhaps they earned money for plane tickets by acting as seeing-eye dogs or human foot stools. Who were we, the over privileged American yuppies, to begrudge a poor little Nicurguan baby her right to cry? What next? Try to stop the caged bird from singing?
Like I said, my mood was pretty volatile.
Not only did the counter trolls seat us in the VERY LAST ROW of the plane, but guess who we shared the row with? None other than La Madonna herself, breastfeeding her baby and adjusting her nimbus with her free hand. Upon being seated I commenced patting myself on the back. What a greatly magnanimous person I am! Who else would be so gentle and kind as she took her seat by this poor immigrant, who would surely return my greeting if only she spoke English? Maybe I can arrange to tutor her on our language and teach her our ways!
When the baby started screaming almost instantly, I reminded myself that I would one day be in the same situation, and again congratulated myself on my understanding and fellow feeling. Then things started going south.
First, she spoke to me, in perfect English, asking me to trade seats with her so that she could be on the aisle. Obviously that would be the best place for her since she has the baby, but that would put me in the middle, and I hate the middle. Everyone is always taking your arm rests and touching your thighs with their thighs. Unfortunately this is one of those social situations where I had absolutely no choice so I had to do it.
Then she fell asleep with her head tipped back and her mouth wide open, which was just gross. It put her face on full display, shaved eyebrows growing back, chapped lips, and snub nose. This was when I really started hating her. I hate everyone who sleeps on planes because I want to sleep on the plane more than I've ever wanted anything, but I just can't do it. It's soooo uncomfortable and I am always afraid of looking EXACTLY like she looked at that moment.
Serendipitously, she roused from her refreshing nap just as the flight attendant reached our row with the scraps left over from feeding snacks to the other, more fortunate passengers. Normally this is my favorite part of the flight because I love those little gingerbread biscuit things. Well, I should say lovED, past tense, because presently I loathe them.
Now is a good time to mention my recent purchase of several pure white items of clothing. It's a new phase. My favorite pure white thing I have bought to date is a sheer cotton bathrobe that I wear as a pashmina. It makes me feel all sophisticated and unblemished. Ten minutes after the flight attendant brought our cookies, the back of my prized piece of clothing looked like it had been smeared with human feces. People who allow their children to spatter semi-digested foodstuffs onto the clothing of total strangers should not exist.
After the baby finished her little snack, the STD warehouse who gave birth to her took them both to the lavatory to get cleaned up. My seat and hers were decorated with globs of chewed up cookies, and what did not hit my white top landed on my jeans. I did my best to clean up everything with some sanitizing wipes from CVS, but some messes are just beyond the capabilities of a mere moist towelette. When she sat down, I had removed and balled up my defaced faux-pashmina and was stewing quite obviously, but she didn't care. That was when her wedding ring was brought to my notice. Strike two after the English capabilities--she's married. Why should I feel the least bit compassionate toward a married American woman with no bra who allows the wanton destruction of the property of others?
As the flight continued, mommy dearest took more open-mouthed naps, and child was allowed to dump juice on my feet, pull my hair and pound on my thigh with her disgusting sticky evil baby hand. It amazes me how much devastation was brought into my life in a 2-hour time span by a person who would have easily fit into the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of me.
Maybe when I have kids, people can come down to Florida and visit me.
Then she fell asleep with her head tipped back and her mouth wide open, which was just gross. It put her face on full display, shaved eyebrows growing back, chapped lips, and snub nose. This was when I really started hating her. I hate everyone who sleeps on planes because I want to sleep on the plane more than I've ever wanted anything, but I just can't do it. It's soooo uncomfortable and I am always afraid of looking EXACTLY like she looked at that moment.
Serendipitously, she roused from her refreshing nap just as the flight attendant reached our row with the scraps left over from feeding snacks to the other, more fortunate passengers. Normally this is my favorite part of the flight because I love those little gingerbread biscuit things. Well, I should say lovED, past tense, because presently I loathe them.
Now is a good time to mention my recent purchase of several pure white items of clothing. It's a new phase. My favorite pure white thing I have bought to date is a sheer cotton bathrobe that I wear as a pashmina. It makes me feel all sophisticated and unblemished. Ten minutes after the flight attendant brought our cookies, the back of my prized piece of clothing looked like it had been smeared with human feces. People who allow their children to spatter semi-digested foodstuffs onto the clothing of total strangers should not exist.
After the baby finished her little snack, the STD warehouse who gave birth to her took them both to the lavatory to get cleaned up. My seat and hers were decorated with globs of chewed up cookies, and what did not hit my white top landed on my jeans. I did my best to clean up everything with some sanitizing wipes from CVS, but some messes are just beyond the capabilities of a mere moist towelette. When she sat down, I had removed and balled up my defaced faux-pashmina and was stewing quite obviously, but she didn't care. That was when her wedding ring was brought to my notice. Strike two after the English capabilities--she's married. Why should I feel the least bit compassionate toward a married American woman with no bra who allows the wanton destruction of the property of others?
As the flight continued, mommy dearest took more open-mouthed naps, and child was allowed to dump juice on my feet, pull my hair and pound on my thigh with her disgusting sticky evil baby hand. It amazes me how much devastation was brought into my life in a 2-hour time span by a person who would have easily fit into the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of me.
Maybe when I have kids, people can come down to Florida and visit me.
haha! Stab stab stab!
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