one time I wrote this on an airplane

I’m standing in line for the bathroom on my southwest flight.

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I wasn’t supposed to stand in line. They specifically asked us not to stand in line. But I was the first person and therefore, arguably, I wasn’t really in line as much as I was just loitering near the bathroom. I smiled at the male flight attendant.

“You’re breaking my rule”, he says!

“Sorry,” I say apologetically.

I’m not sorry.

I have to pee. I am going to pee my pants. If I actually do so– then, I’ll be sorry. So will he. And right now, unless he forcibly carries me back to my seat, I’m not moving.

I smile again.

The kid in this bathroom is taking forever. What is he doing in there? Do I even want to know? God, if he’s taking a giant.. Oh. Ok. He’s out. Good. Move shrimp, I gotta pee.

This bathroom is freaking tiny.

How do people supposedly join the infamous mile high club in these things? How is that even possible? Wouldn’t everyone know? Can you get in trouble for that? They don’t really say “no sex in the lavatories” . Though they do say no smoking. And apparently no waiting in line. Could you get arrested? I think you would have to plot it out. Like Ocean’s 11. But like for hooking up in the airplane bathroom. I’m sure there is a website detailing how to succeed at this. There’s a website for pretty much everything these days you know. Anyway, they really should make it a little roomier. Just for old people and like big people. To be nice.

I’m in the emergency exit row. Which first of all, hello why have I never sat here before,  there is so much room I could stick my legs all the way out and do a little horizontal running. I could learn the Justin Bieber backup dance in the space I have been provided. I could harbor a secret pet under my seat. This is awesome. I’m sitting in this row forever from now forward. Also until this experience,  I never pay attention to the emergency info they show us because I’m like if our plane is going down, it probably matters very little if I’m wearing my seatbelt or know how to use a life vest. Also like hell I’m putting on the oxygen mask on anyone but me anyway. I’m single forever. Thanks airplane attendant. You have bad pants.

But this lady is standing right in front of me showing this VERY IMPORTANT SAFETY STUFF. And I’m like what if the plane actually does go down? Then every man woman and child is going to be looking to me for help. I can’t freeze under pressure. I need to know my shit. I sit up taller. I’m listening. I will be an active helpful citizen. I look good in army fatigue. I could probably learn how to shoot a crossbow. I will be a leader in the face of danger. Y’all can trust me! I’m a survivor. Beyoncé bitches. I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!!!!!!!!!!

The people next to me are talking about their kids and I have zero interest in listening. I already lied and told them I worked for the government. Sometimes I do that on planes. I don’t even plan on it I just start talking and all of a sudden I work in Washington specifically within aerial intelligence which mean in layman’s terms, I’m the correspondent between pilots and ground control. I’m off to work on the San Diego base for a few months. I don’t even know what I am talking about. They don’t either. I put in my headphones and start writing. I avoid their eyes the rest of the flight. I could have just said I was in beauty school or a struggling actress. But no. I had to say I was pretty much working in the FBI. Good.

I make a mental list of all the things my apartment still needs.

A kitchen table.

A couple chairs.

Proof on the walls that someone lives there.
New shoes.

….Not relevant meg.

I keep making awkward eye contact with a guy across from me. Probably my love interest when our plane crashes in the jungle of Las Vegas. He looks like he’s 19. Maybe 20. I can deal. (See what I did there with my Vegas joke? I kill myself. Hysterical.)

I’m starving.

I eat the peanuts they give us like a starving little street monkey. I don’t even freaking like peanuts. They should really serve something new.

I mean how long have airplane culinary service been on the peanuts train?

Far too long.

Who decides this stuff?

I vote hummus. Just straight. In little baby food jars. With spoons. I decide the airplane snack decider is someone akin to the Queen. Like they have very little seniority but it’s relevant in this particular category and someone is just waiting for them to die but until then its peanuts forever because they freaking love peanuts even though no one else does. But when they do croak, airplane food is going to go nuts. Not to make a bad pun. But also to make a bad pun.

I also would hope they would consider handing out little jars of nutella.

After telling the people next to me that I work for the government I feel the need to continue with my identity as a mysterious government worker. Which means pulling out the Allure magazine just chilling in my carry-on would be an obvious dead giveaway. FBI babes do not care about their cuticles or exfoliating their pores. They just look really good with a high ponytail and minimal eye makeup. And librarian glasses. Which are in my suitcase. Dammit.

Why do famous people never fly Southwest? Why do I never get to sit next to someone cool? Why do I always have to pretend to be the cool one and then they tell me they work in health care and I’m like yawn, you should have lied too because that would have shown me! One time, I sat next to a lady who had cancer. Which was obviously horrible to find out and sad. Except then she told me like 6 times. By the 5th time, I didn’t know what to say so I just patted her hand. It was weird. I thought she was going to want to be pen pals or ask me for money but I think she just wanted to talk. I didn’t lie about my occupation that time.

Up until recently, I thought all celebrities had private jets and never flew on normal planes. Like seriously. Until about last Friday until I gave this thought serious thought and realized that couldn’t possibly be true. And then I felt like an idiot. And then I desperately hoped I would see Adam Levine flying home for the holidays and he would be on my flight and we would talk and then he would write a song about the girl he met on the airplane and then I would melt like a human girl version of frosty. But instead I sat next to a girl who hogged the arm rest and played temple run the entire flight. I feel like this entire paragraph would make an excellent meme.

Every time the plane lands I grasp the arm rest and desperately hope the pilot is adequately sober and didn’t BS their flight training. I mean.. I have a lot of things I want to accomplish on the ground, I’d hate for the plane to explode and blow that for me.

For once… I don’t really know why I’m writing.

I had a point. But I forgot it.

Anyway. Hey Ben Folds, come pick me up.

I’ve landed.

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