I fly a lot. Like more than I probably even realize. It seems like on the third Wednesday of every month; I’m sitting at some gate in LaGuardia Airport, clutching my beloved medium Dunkin Donuts coffee (cream and two Splendas) while dreaming up all the ways I’m going to spend my per diem at the hotel I’m going to check into. I’m not a fan of flying by any means. In fact, when my mother was dying during the first half of my college years, I developed a phobia of flying that made even the thought of it crippling. Each flight ended with a long and unpleasant time in the bathroom while I tried to calm my stomach and nerves back in formation. Luckily, for the sake of my sanity and my career, I got over that.
Nowadays if I’m not going home to Chicago or on some exotic Groupon vacation that I’ve booked with my sister or bestie, I’m usually traveling for work (ie: someone is paying me to go fly somewhere (usually to like Los Angeles or Atlanta or whatever but I’m not complaining) to watch a movie or show, interview some celebs, write about that shit and take long luxurious baths in the tubs at five star hotels). It’s a pretty kick-ass gig and fits right in with my bougie lifestyle (even though in real life I’ve lived in the same box in Harlem for the past six years with my variety of Raid sprays to kill any and every bug that may infiltrate my bubble.)
To get back on topic, the trip thing in itself is quite a delight, and it makes me feel all adult and professional to say that I’m traveling for business. (Sometimes if I’m feeling extremely Whitley Gilbert, I’ll even upgrade to First Class, but only if it’s for a flight over four hours and it’s less than $79.99… let’s not get crazy.) However, the trip itself and the fellow creatures that pretend that they’re human beings usually like to make my life miserable on planes. It’s one thing if you’re under five and can’t control yourself, but it’s usually grown folks who are the absolute worst.
All I want to do on flights is listen to Brandy’s Greatest Hits Album, work a little (because bills) and read whatever that latest filthy novel is that I’ve downloaded on my Kindle on the dimmest setting possible. (NO CARL I don’t want to tell you what I’m reading!!!) Instead, I’m usually forced to sit next to Mildew John (washing machines are not a new invention) or Patrick or Mable who tells me she reminds me of her granddaughter or well-meaning Beth Ann who wants to strike up a conversation with me. Listen, I’m almost polite to a fault. I’m always going to nod and smile and listen to your tragic tale of how you’re visiting your sister Betsey for the first time in five years, and you’re going to go to Cracker Barrel or whatever or how you find that it’s so intriguing that I can actually LIVE in New York. Mostly, I would rather be getting my pubs waxed or getting my annual gyno exam instead of listening to you. It has also become increasingly more difficult to be nice to Dwights I don’t know since ya’ll ruined everything and elected Dump. I really can’t trust you at all, and I would rather sit in silence than have to try and figure out who you voted for Even when you think you get lucky on a long ass flight to LA in coach, and there is no one in the middle seat, someone makes it an ordeal. Why is it acceptable for you to take off your filthy Berkinstocks Paul, and put your BARE FEET on the seat between us? I wish I were watching the news instead. But by far, the worse offense of plane traveling is this new age bullshit where Sally and Gereldene from row 6998Z run their desperate asses to the front as soon as the plane parks even though 4 million people are in front of them and we’ve gotten to the gate 30 minutes early. I hate you. (But I’m tragically too nice to ever say some shit like that. )
xoxoxo Chocolategirl in the City xoxoxo