As much as traveling completely excites my electrons and my sometimes napping restlessness, I'm not terribly fond of the thirteen million others traveling with me.
Strangers, to be more clear, are strange.
I have a thing about sharing my body space with people I've never laid eyes on until the awkward moment we meet while tossing our bags about, grasping for a book or a pillow while shoving the unnecessaries out of our way.
I'm not sure what the fabulous Universe is trying to teach me about men and fear, but I seem to have a peculiar knack for being seated next to (probably otherwise very sweet) nervous single male fliers. The foot-tapping, nail biting, fidgeting praying eyes shut men who would never admit to the fellas at the club to having kissed that golden crucifix dangling from a gold chain (and no longer hiding under their business shirt) while summarily kissing their own asses goodbye, just in case. But there it is, my dumb luck and the Universe's amusing little sense of wry humor.
I don't mind sharing the space that exists between the hair on his arms and the hair on mine, but there seems to be a slightly discourteous attitude that accompanies nervous fliers which causes them to completely forget courtesy in the midst of their unravelling. You see, if they're going to be sharing any part of my body at all, my unspoken rule is that they're going to have to make eye contact with me at least once before we buckle ourselves in for the adventure. And it would behoove them to make the eye contact right off the bat because I WILL have eye contact before we land, dammit. I will talk, I will ask questions, I will counter-wiggle against his shifting nervousness and silently mouthed praying ('oh god, I really wanted to date that woman from the next floor up. Please just let me live and I promise I'll talk to her. Please lord, do not ignore this plea, please let me live and land safely and I'll fuck her in the name of all the saints, if that will please you and get me from here to there and back safely').
Pray all you want, sweetieboy, but until you look me in the eyeballs and exchange one simple pleasantry with me -just one!- I will make your nervewracking trip something out of a Hitchcock film, I swear I will. Try me. Wanna know exactly how many times I can have to get up to use the airplane bathroom in two hours? Keep not looking at me and you'll certainly find out.
Pretend I'm not there, will you? Fine. I hope that wasn't an engine falling out just now, did you hear that noise? Naw, probably not the engine. Maybe just a thingie that is supposed to be underneath one of the wings. See how that works?
Where was I? Oh, yes. Sharing body space. We don't have to exchange personal details, nor will I expect a greeting card from you to let me know you've remembered my birthday. I won't follow you in your dreams, mocking your terror of the friendly skies ...
That's all. Yes, that's it, the whole shebang. I'll pop in the earbuds to my discman and go merrily on my photographic playtime way. Just please very simply admit I exist.
1 comment:
Oh Honey, I know you exist, and are we all the better for it.
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