DUOFILIA

 There’s a lot of people who fly a lot. Every week and sometimes every day of the week. I’m not one of them. Generally, I fly once a year on business. Occasionally twice. This year, I’ve flown more in the past three months than I have in the past few years. I’m getting to know certain airports way too well, specifically Portland, Phoenix and San Francisco — but there have been others.

I enjoy the people watching. In these days of the blue tooth, people walk around the airport, holding conversations with the voices in their heads. This is a handy development for those who hear voices in their heads and don’t own blue teeth or cell phones at all. These people can purchase a fake over-the-ear receiver and talk to their voices all day and no one cares. Although content of conversation does tend to tip one off.

Years ago, I was exiting the subway beneath the Twin Towers (yes, those Twin Towers) and a man behind me kept saying, in his New York accent, “gotta find my cah, gotta find my cah, gotta find my cah.” This would not have sounded more normal if he had a blue tooth, although the only mobile phones back then were the size of a shoe box. Perhaps he didn’t want to forget where his car was parked, and I’ve certainly done that, but my chant is usually along the lines of, “Blue Lot Row 3, Blue Lot Row 3, Blue Lot Row 3.”

Much has been said about the size of airline seats. In April when I flew to Austin, TX, each connecting flight was smaller. I think this is part of a greater plan, to gradually force the human body into a size and shape most efficient for eventually packing us into crates. The flight between Austin and Phoenix was the worst. It was an Air Bus 320 Shrimp, or something, and there are only four seats across from window to window, in about an 8 foot space, including aisle. Passengers over 5’11″ had to stoop to get down the aisle.

I sat in my window seat and a tall and wide man sat next to me and promptly fell asleep. Feeling cramped and claustrophobic, I reached up to open the air vent and when my arm jerked to a stop at two inches from the vent, I realized that the large guy was sitting on my suit tail. I pulled and pulled, to no avail. Fortunately, I was barely able to reach the vent with my opposite hand.

To make matters extra horrible, the seats in that airplane were designed by the Humpback of Notre Dame or someone similar. There is zero lumbar support; actually, the seats are very concave, made worse that someone brilliant decided to add head rests that force the chin to the chest. So basically, it’s the fetal position. Maybe it was designed that way on purpose, so as to put one in the ideal position for weeping. So I spent the two hour flight hunched over my tray table, overheated, and stuck under a large businessman.

My last flight was two days ago and I’m glad to say that my next known flight isn’t for three months. By then I should be able to unfurl.

This entry was posted on Sunday, June 10th, 2007 at 11:08 am and is filed under Laughter, Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.