The mile-high club
No, no, not that one – just the mile-high bloggers’ club, as I’m typing this on my ride home from San Francisco (no access to the In-N-Out Burger, I’m sorry to report to Sharico, and no time for the places Mags recommended, although I’ve been to both on previous trips).
But come to think of it, I’m sort of fascinated by that other mile-high club. Let’s see: I took my first plane ride in 1984 (the infamous, “Look, ma! Chickenpox!” trip to Disney World). And in almost 22 years of flying, I’ve only seen two airplane restrooms that actually appear large enough to accommodate two people under any circumstances whatsoever, never mind if at least one of those people has a serious germ phobia. But I understand that people find a way, and I’ve even heard very detailed stories of how it works, but I still just can’t imagine squeezing into your average-size airplane lavatory with another person and having it be any fun.
Anyway.
The plane home is packed, and the movie is The Legend of Zorro, but I’m doing work so not watching. But I am startled by the number of people who are clearly engrossed in the movie, because they are reacting to it quite loudly:
“That’s the end of the line!!”
“Look out!!!”
“Oh-ho!!”
I’ve never heard such loud and consistent reactions to airplane movies before. (Airplane! movies, maybe. Heh. See how capitalization and punctuation make a difference? God I’m a dork.)
I don’t usually use my laptop on the plane; on my way out, I marked up hard copies of really crappy papers, and I was attempting to make those changes to the electronic versions on this leg of my trip, but it’s turning out to be such a ridiculous process that I’m giving up. I had to take a 30-minute break while my dinner tray was in the way, and even with a clear tray-table, there’s nowhere for me to put my reference papers while I type, except for my mouth, and people are looking at me funny. I think the flight attendant would like to take back the, “My, aren’t you polite!” she served me after I said, “Yes, please,” when she asked if I’d like a chicken sandwich and, “Thanks so much,” when she handed it to me. Really, people are a bunch of ingrates, but it’s always surprising to me how far a little “please” and “thank you” can go when people are so unaccustomed to hearing it.
Speaking of manners: would you knock it off with the shoving five bags plus your sport coat and your winter coat in the overhead twelve seats ahead of yours? And with the loitering in the aisles when people are just trying to get to their seats? What is wrong with people?
Okay, done with the rant.
I can’t wait to get home to my guys; the Smelmooo and I were back to the “ships passing in the night” business this week (we saw each other for about an hour and a half on Tuesday night; he unpacked the bag he used for D.C. and I packed it up for SF; we watched 24; we were done), and I’m so over it, although my travel’s slowing down again next month.
I feel like I’m having a quarter-life crisis, which is so lame and yuppie-ish, and it occurred to me that I’m too old for a quarter-life crisis, because I don’t think I’m going to make it to 114. But regardless, I’m having one of those “life’s too short” kinds of feelings about nonsense at work, and I am wondering what color my parachute is and all that crap, and feeling sort of paralyzed and scared. As Sharico knows, because she still has a copy of it, I wrote my college essay about not knowing what I want to be when I grow up.
A quick diversion: Minnams asked me the other day why, if I was clearly such a nerdy overachiever, did I not go to a top-notch college? And my answer was that: (a) I was interested in Brown, but then when my mom and I got to the campus we couldn’t find any parking, so I decided I didn’t want to go there; (b) I was interested in Dartmouth, but then heard it was a misogynistic kind of place, which I didn’t want; and (c) I visited and loved Amherst, but got intimidated by the application and didn’t apply. And really, that is one of the few regrets I have in life, the not even applying because I was too scared of rejection. Because really? I had kick-ass SAT scores, and fine grades, and good activities, and I could write well, and it’s entirely possible I could’ve gotten in. But I got spooked, and I just wanted the whole application process done with, so I applied early-decision to a fine school where I was 99% sure I’d get in, and I did, and that was that. This isn’t something that haunts me, particularly, and in the end I really don’t think it matters much where you go to college; I think it’s a regret less about actually where I did or didn’t go to school as about my total lack of confidence and fear of rejection.
Anyway, I'm going through it again, the still not knowing what I want to do when I grow up, even though I'm ostensibly already a grown-up. But that's another entry for another time. For now, I will turn to my US Weekly and have a nice weekend with my guys, and worry about it on Monday.
But come to think of it, I’m sort of fascinated by that other mile-high club. Let’s see: I took my first plane ride in 1984 (the infamous, “Look, ma! Chickenpox!” trip to Disney World). And in almost 22 years of flying, I’ve only seen two airplane restrooms that actually appear large enough to accommodate two people under any circumstances whatsoever, never mind if at least one of those people has a serious germ phobia. But I understand that people find a way, and I’ve even heard very detailed stories of how it works, but I still just can’t imagine squeezing into your average-size airplane lavatory with another person and having it be any fun.
Anyway.
The plane home is packed, and the movie is The Legend of Zorro, but I’m doing work so not watching. But I am startled by the number of people who are clearly engrossed in the movie, because they are reacting to it quite loudly:
“That’s the end of the line!!”
“Look out!!!”
“Oh-ho!!”
I’ve never heard such loud and consistent reactions to airplane movies before. (Airplane! movies, maybe. Heh. See how capitalization and punctuation make a difference? God I’m a dork.)
I don’t usually use my laptop on the plane; on my way out, I marked up hard copies of really crappy papers, and I was attempting to make those changes to the electronic versions on this leg of my trip, but it’s turning out to be such a ridiculous process that I’m giving up. I had to take a 30-minute break while my dinner tray was in the way, and even with a clear tray-table, there’s nowhere for me to put my reference papers while I type, except for my mouth, and people are looking at me funny. I think the flight attendant would like to take back the, “My, aren’t you polite!” she served me after I said, “Yes, please,” when she asked if I’d like a chicken sandwich and, “Thanks so much,” when she handed it to me. Really, people are a bunch of ingrates, but it’s always surprising to me how far a little “please” and “thank you” can go when people are so unaccustomed to hearing it.
Speaking of manners: would you knock it off with the shoving five bags plus your sport coat and your winter coat in the overhead twelve seats ahead of yours? And with the loitering in the aisles when people are just trying to get to their seats? What is wrong with people?
Okay, done with the rant.
I can’t wait to get home to my guys; the Smelmooo and I were back to the “ships passing in the night” business this week (we saw each other for about an hour and a half on Tuesday night; he unpacked the bag he used for D.C. and I packed it up for SF; we watched 24; we were done), and I’m so over it, although my travel’s slowing down again next month.
I feel like I’m having a quarter-life crisis, which is so lame and yuppie-ish, and it occurred to me that I’m too old for a quarter-life crisis, because I don’t think I’m going to make it to 114. But regardless, I’m having one of those “life’s too short” kinds of feelings about nonsense at work, and I am wondering what color my parachute is and all that crap, and feeling sort of paralyzed and scared. As Sharico knows, because she still has a copy of it, I wrote my college essay about not knowing what I want to be when I grow up.
A quick diversion: Minnams asked me the other day why, if I was clearly such a nerdy overachiever, did I not go to a top-notch college? And my answer was that: (a) I was interested in Brown, but then when my mom and I got to the campus we couldn’t find any parking, so I decided I didn’t want to go there; (b) I was interested in Dartmouth, but then heard it was a misogynistic kind of place, which I didn’t want; and (c) I visited and loved Amherst, but got intimidated by the application and didn’t apply. And really, that is one of the few regrets I have in life, the not even applying because I was too scared of rejection. Because really? I had kick-ass SAT scores, and fine grades, and good activities, and I could write well, and it’s entirely possible I could’ve gotten in. But I got spooked, and I just wanted the whole application process done with, so I applied early-decision to a fine school where I was 99% sure I’d get in, and I did, and that was that. This isn’t something that haunts me, particularly, and in the end I really don’t think it matters much where you go to college; I think it’s a regret less about actually where I did or didn’t go to school as about my total lack of confidence and fear of rejection.
Anyway, I'm going through it again, the still not knowing what I want to do when I grow up, even though I'm ostensibly already a grown-up. But that's another entry for another time. For now, I will turn to my US Weekly and have a nice weekend with my guys, and worry about it on Monday.
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