Hysteria. . . .Part Two: Up, Up & Away!

Three hours into our flight the skies were looking no friendlier than an hour or so after dawn when we shimmied our way through the soon to be compressed cabin air to find our seats: a couple of amazingly tiny, uncomfortable and ergonomically nightmarish stools with hard backs that pitched dangerously forward if you dared to move, even slightly. My travel companion agreed to sit in the middle and act as “therapist.”

The dry, noisy air sucked the very life out of me halfway to our destination and prompted more than a few really-have-to-pee emergencies. This rather difficult, brave journey as you may know entails standing tentatively on one foot or the other while tripping over yourself as you carefully move down a measly small, single aisle, bumping into seated, jutting elbows, hopping your way to the back of the cabin.

This new "better!" winged contraption that naively races through the clouds these days is astonishingly narrow. You realize this as you continue to wriggle your way to the bathroom, the wee plane rocking happily back and forth. Once you finally pry open the folding lavatory door, you are more or less flung into the WC rather rudely while trying hard not to fall down; in truth, if you even attempted this headlong maneuver- i.e. falling to the floor- you would wind up wedged in a rather awkward position between the bowl and the sink. There simply is no place to fall. Flinging your body randomly against walls however is totally allowed as you try not to miss by achieving just the right position.

Back in my seat I feel as if I am devoid of every drop of moisture that keeps the engine of my parched organs running smoothly. Can one continue to exist in this state for a period of time and actually still be classified as "alive?"

Halfway through I have my first panic attack. It’s relatively low level (real terror of course does not take hold until landing), and I successfully manage to desist running up and down the aisle naked and screaming, flailing my arms erratically and demanding to be let off the plane immediately. In fact, I am quite proud of having avoided the temptation to be escorted to the rear and tranquilized by the men in the little white jackets by acting like a lunatic.

Be all that as it may, I soon am convinced there is something very, very wrong with the ventilation system and the cabin pressure, which explains why suddenly I am gasping for air. The twenty-something in her hoodie who is tucked near the window thinking she will live forever without warning put up the window shade, sending a blast of sharp, unforgiving beams of blinding illumination right into the center of my pupils. For the most part, everyone plays dead, eyes closed either in sleep or shock.

O thank you so much. . . orange juice, yes. No, no ice. Thanks!

How the hell will this ridiculous, plastic cup with the sticky liquid swishing around like the seas during a tsunami not go flying all over my new shoes? The teenie, tiny cocktail napkin won't be of much help either with the cleanup. . . . 

And people actually do this for fun.

Only three more hours. . . .


(Next week part three: I arrive!!!)