Very rarely do I get the chance to write a blog post based on a moment I’m witnessing live. But, it’s the season of travel, here I sit on an airplane, and I can’t help but find the people who surround me to be overly fascinating.
I should note that Noah and I are wedged side by side into the very back row of a very small airplane. Directly to our right is the one and only commode. Every time someone drops a twosie and opens the door afterwards, we get a nice big whiff of nastiness that is enough to make sure these bags of peanuts sitting on our fold-down trays remain unopened and uneaten. Nobody wants poopy peanuts.
The Farmer’s Daughter is three rows up, crammed up against a window while the middle-aged bald man next to her holds a giant newspaper at full width, uncaring of how much of her space he takes or how much room anyone in the aisle has to finagle around his outstretched arm. His hand is inconveniently (or maybe conveniently) set at crotch level in the aisle so that the people passing by are either gonna get a happy bonus bump or a complete violation of all things personal. It’s kind of exciting to watch people do theatrical moves of athleticism to get around him.
There is only one flight-attendant. She is a sweet Filipino woman. She stopped by our seats and hovered and gabbed for what seemed like an eternity, not wanting to move on until my child openly admitted and acknowledged to the entire world that she was the funniest, nicest, most personable woman he had ever met. She never got what she was hovering for, and she finally settled for a promise that he’d buy her some of the same candy he brought on the plane with him next time around.
Oh geez, hold on.
Sorry, I know that was one line of text to you, but it was about five minutes with the lid to my computer closed for me. A very rotund man just squeezed past me (his even more rotund butt in my face as he did) and entered the commode. As he came out, I was hit by a wall of stench that would make you slap your grandmother. And not the grandmother you’d like to slap. I’m talking about the sweet and kind one. The one that no person on earth, not even the world’s greatest tyrant, would feel good smacking.
I really don’t like these seats.
Poo. Stink. Rotund butts in my face.
His butt was so close I could smell the sweat that had been accumulating inside of it all day long. Or at least I could imagine smelling it. Nobody wants that in their face, I promise you.
Finally the smell dissipated and I felt comfortable opening my computer back up.
Back to people watching.
Sitting directly to my right is a man with rock solid arms and a neck that would make an NFL Linebacker jealous. This guy has to have been a professional wrestler. Or a professional prison inmate, I’m not sure. He’s got the tattoos to be either, and he could pop my head between his forearm and bicep, of that I have no doubt.
He’s too tall for the backs of the seats and so his head is bobbing as he dozes in and out of consciousness. To the front. Sideways. Behind him. Back to the front.
Ow, crap. Somebody just stepped on my exposed toe.
My fault for leaving it in the aisle. Airline’s fault for putting me next to the crapper.
Anyway, tattoo-wrestler-prison guy is attempting to catch his 40 winks, albeit unsuccessfully. Every five minutes or so he bolts upright, looks violently in every direction, and then settles back into his attempt at slumbering.
The dude would probably scare the crap out of me if there wasn’t one of the sweetest looking little girls I’d ever seen with her head against his arm, sleeping on Daddy with complete love and trust for the man that could use me to mop his kitchen.
Directly in front of me is a man who obviously hates the crapper being right next to us as much as I do, though he’s much more anxious to let everyone around us know it.
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