I'll be what I am

So, anyhoodle. I actually had a good trip I think. I mean, despite the chaos. I could have fared much worse. I mean, I made it where I needed to go, eventually my luggage did too, there was plenty of room on my flights so I could choose window or aisle depending on my mood and even angle across 'em all to prevent my knees from being crushed by the reclining seat backs in front of me. And, weirdly, I think I'm getting past my landing anxiety.

(Landing never used to bother me, having grown up flying around in a little single-engine Cessna piloted by my Dad and all, but I never really used to think about it either. That changed on a puddle-jumper flight from DC to New Haven while I was in college. I swear the pilots forgot where they were going, because I was looking out the window thinking, "hey, that's campus clear down there... shouldn't we be...?" when suddenly the bottom dropped out from under us as we began to plummet out of the sky. Seriously, I could see Tweed Airport out my window not actually going anywhere, just getting larger and larger as we dove straight down. That was the first time I was ever terrified in an airplane. I honestly didn't think we were going to be able to pull out of the dive in time to not leave a smoking crater at the foot of the runway.)

Anyway, now it's more the people that scare me than the flight. A true sign of my burgeoning curmudgeonhood, perhaps. It began at 4:15 in the dark and cold morning when SuperShuttle picked me up. The next to get on was a wet-haired sorority sister just past her prime and looking a little worse for the wear. She smelled of stale beer, cigarettes and shampoo, and wheezed out a throaty "sure is early" to my nod of acknowledgement. I couldn't think of a single thing to say for fear of striking up an actual conversation.

Next, standing in the ridiculously long security line, drinking my bottled water so it wouldn't go to waste and surrounded by people frantically rummaging through their carry-on, was a pleasant older gentleman with a woolly cardigan and nothing but a leather satchel. Of course everyone was feeling chummy because of the unusual circumstances so he struck up a conversation, and because it's hard for me to be completely rude, I learned all about his early days with punch-card computers and the cutting edge of engineering computing technology at Stanford during the 50's-80's. Yes he was perfectly nice and harmless, but I find it difficult to waste energy connecting with strangers I'll never see again. Which is probably pathological, given the magic of being human and blah blah blah, but still, it was 6 in the fucking morning, I had just parted with my Chapstick, and all I wanted was some personal space.

Also, the beautiful broad-faced brunette woman in line behind me on the jetway, as we were waiting to have our carry-ons searched again: she couldn't stop talking about how much she needed to pee since she, too, had downed all her water before security so it wouldn't go to waste. Ok, so she built up to that revelation with some giddy chitchat about trying to decide if she should throw out her favorite Aveda/BodyShop/Sephora products or miss the flight, but hello? TMI.

I certainly can't leave out the obnoxious blond tween twins and their brute brother in front of me on one leg. I feel sure this was their first airplane experience given their level excitement and ignorance, but sadly their enthusiasm was mostly exhibited by pummeling each other, arguing loudly in ogre-speak, and slamming their seats back into my kneecaps. Also, who takes off their shoes while the plane is still at the gate and places them in the overhead compartment? Who?! It took me at least 20 minutes to adjust the overhead air properly to keep from gagging at the smell of seriously sour feet the whole flight.

Most alarmingly, though, was the big-armed guy who sat next to me en route back to Phoenix. He still had hospital tags on his wrist, and some amber iodine stains beneath his well-formed (but soul-patch adorned) chin and streaking across his clean-shaven jawline and veiny neck. I couldn't see any actual surgical signs, though he still had gauze taped on the back of his smooth hand and in the crook of his arm. He didn't actually speak to me, or show any signs he knew I existed, which was just was well - the last thing I wanted was to become Patient One, because Patient Zero had breathed on me. But he kept falling asleep with his leg in the aisle, so the flight attendant kept asking me to poke him so she could get her drink cart through. I was not thrilled at this. For all I knew, he had just escaped from the psych ward and was on the lam. I mean, who gets on a plane directly from the hospital without even taking off the wrist tags? I did relax a little later when he pulled out a paper with the header "Post-Procedure Discharge Instructions," though he could have snagged that from the nurse he strangled.

So yeah. Maybe I need a car. I like driving. By myself.