Red Eyes

Have you ever been so tired that you feel slightly drunk? By 8 last night, that was my frame of mind. And all because of my trip home.

Apparantly there are very few reasonably priced flights from where we were for training back home. And on Thursday afternoon, there was even less selection. So little selection, in fact, that the only option left was the red eye. (Clue: When they name a flight the "red eye" it most likely is indicative of the type of enjoyable trip you're going to have. So, should you ever book yourself on "the death rocket" you might want to think of reconsidering. And I imagine the "screaming baby mobile" is also something you should think long and hard before riding. But neither of those can hold a candle to my latest red eye experience.)

Being a rather optimistic, and fairly naive, soul, I had a little conversation with myself about this flight. "Self," I said, "it's a Thursday night. The plane leaves at 11 and arrives in the early early Friday dawn. Perhaps you will be able to stretch out and have a comfy night sleep and arrive back home refreshed and ready for a new day."

And then I boarded the plane. And other people boarded the plane. And still more people boarded the plane. And they just kept pushing them into the plane until the thing resembled a clown car.

Note to the world: When I am in charge, it will be illegal to have a sold out red eye.

So much for stretching out. But perhaps it will not be so bad. The two ladies next to me have pillows and blankets and are also planning on a good night of sleep as we wing our way home. All is not lost! I settle in as best I can, turn my air nozzle to high and aim it just slightly away from my head (nothing worse than air beating right on your noggin while you're sleeping) and shut my eyes as we take off. I drifted in that half-conscious state you can get to only on airplanes for about an hour and a half until I feel someone rustling around in the vicinity of my knees. I open my eyes quickly. It's the girl next to me, definitively green around the gills, rummaging through my seat pocket. I blink, mind trying to figure out not only where and who I am, but who this person going through my personal space is and what on earth she's looking for, until she brandishes the airsick bag quickly and then proceeds to use it for its designated purpose. Just barely in the nick of time.

Three bags later (Baa, baa, green sheep, have you any vomit?) she curls up with a wet paper towel on the back of her neck and goes back to sleep. Feeling rather traumatized, I stare out the window trying to decide if I should even try and risk waking to that again, or just stare at the clouds. I opt for the clouds, deciding that it can't possibly get worse.

Until the farts from the seat in front start wafting back our way.

Someone from that row gets up and goes to the restroom. Many minutes later they slink back to their seat. But that didn't take care of the problem. The process is repeated another three or four times. Each bit of gas smelling worse than the one before. I begin to worry that someone has already used my airsick bag and now I am left without. It's getting stuffier and stuffier and stinkier and stinkier. And I just want to cry. All I wanted to do was sleep.

We finally landed. I have never wanted to kneel and kiss the ground as badly as I did Friday morning. But there were my coworkers waiting. I eyed them curiously, wondering why they were waiting. And then NTMG drops his bomb:

"I have a personal appointment this morning, so I've got to run, but I'll see you in the office when I get back."

Um...yeah. But wait, it's better:

"HDG took a cab to the airport, so you can just take him with you, right?"

Well, actually, I'd rather ride in a car filled with hungry coyotes after rolling around in bacon fat. But instead, what comes out of my mouth is, "Sure."

As we get off the parking shuttle and walk to my car, the skies open and start dumping buckets of rain. Yep, it's great to be home.