Airheaded

Observations from my flight from New York to Houston

4.8.23

I'm sure nothing I'm thinking is of much significance at the moment or really at any time. But game changer -- I'm on an airplane right now. I want to start by saying I'm a huge fan of the little single-use alcoholic hand wipes the flight attendants pass out immediately when you enter through the door of the plane. It gives off, "we did the best we could (and we're pretty positive it is not not be good enough)" vibes in terms of how they did quickly cleaning the plane from the previous passengers on the last filthy flight. But, I love even more when people don't take them. They're free! What's the hold up babe? You don't have 15 seconds to swipe your seatbelt buckle for someone else's snot, sweat and snack residue? What else are you not wiping down properly in your life? (Don’t let your mind wander. Gross). If the little morsel of trash you have to hold onto for up to two minutes after you clean your seat is the thing holding you back from committing to this quick act, calm down. Crinkle that shit up and put it in the seat back pocket in front of you. It’s a leather garbage bag at your knees.

Overhead bins have become a conspiracy theory where suddenly there are too few bins to match how many bodies are on the planes and that just feels like a huge design flaw that was largely overlooked, noting that probably 95% of travelers bring some sort of bag in hand. What a fun prank to pull! I wonder if someone got a raise for tricking people into having to check their bags at the gate. It's free, with stressful strings attached. It's somehow inconvenient, even though it's meeting you at your “final destination.” The whole gate clenches tightly onto their carryons until vouchers are mentioned and grips and will power begin to loosen up. But I thrive on the tension that arises during the boarding process once we are aboard, while people play Tetris with a stranger's luggage slamming it all around the small out-of-reach bin is breathtaking to watch, unless it's your bag, of course. If it's my bag, then I'm pissed. I found my own little cubby, so remove your dirty claws and go get your own. Try again, bud. It is lawless in this metal tube for all that I'm concerned. And that curvy plastic covering is shut for a reason, stupid.

The woman and child seated behind me are speaking loudly, in French, as if that makes it so no one can hear them. Well surprise! This bitch speaks French and you need to je vais te taire! I remember trying to buy flip flops with my dad in France but he knew not a word of French so his English just got increasingly louder as her comprehension remained null until I put a stop to the cacophonous madness and just handed the woman his credit card. Language barriers can be hilarious. Except when they're kicking the back of your seat. I know how to say stop, but not very politely.

The man sitting in the aisle seat next to me looks like a healthy but ripe 65 year old, sporting brown Carhartt pants and a blue athleisure half zip. He's bald and between picking his nose and and scratching his head, he's been scrolling TikTok throughout the entire flight. Lots of spreadsheet tips. He's been very accommodating the three times I've had to get up to pee — I do not remember hydrating so well. Rookie move. Speaking of hydration, it was a 5am flight and the man in front of me immediately ordered a whiskey. Before everyone was even fully loaded on board. No judgement, I just hope someone gives him a hug soon.

Let's get down to it. The politics of opening the window shades on a plane I think fall in the same category as being in international waters. I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want to up here. So yes, I'll admit it. I'm usually a shade up girly! I like to watch the sunrise or set and see all the cities below me as we jet on by and imagine the people down below just dream of leaving their sad, grey plot of land by winning American Idol. Sometimes though, with the window shades, I find myself outnumbered; as if the other passengers had a meeting while I was in the lavatory (it's mandatory to call the bathroom the lavatory when you're on an airplane and everybody knows that. FAA Regulations demand that and whatnot) and in a whisper, they was like, "Hey we're all going to close our windows. Quickly! Before she's back!" When this takes place, I'll survey the scene and there's a 50/50 chance I'll concede. Maybe the darkness is necessary, maybe it's a red eye flight or I selfishly want to watch a movie sans glare, I'll give that to you. But if it's an 8am flight or later, I'll be that beacon of light baby. Wake the fuck up. Or close your eyes harder. Oh, you ask, "but what about that little bulb button above you?" The overhead reading light is just a mere suggestion of what a light could be but never becomes. It's a whisper of illumination heading in all of the wrong directions with less strength than a sneeze.

I love how when the captain has to pee, they put out the service dolly in front of the entrance to the galley as if to keep him safe and the cockpit off limits but I really doubt a 3x4 metal cube on wheels is going to deter someone with a real mission, sweetie. But hold on tight, stewardess! Our safety is quite literally in your hands. (Is saying that  going to put me on the no fly list?! I will edit this, if yes).

This flight has been nearly 4 hours long. I've eaten an apple, listened to 7 chapters of a book, created a new Spotify playlist (I'm willing to share), peed 3 times, heard the flight attendant say to the man two seats over "Yes sir, whatever you need" in an overtly submissive and sultry tone more times than I can recall. On multiple occasions, I've spilled my water bottle allover my crotch and I don't think it's dried. Let's be honest, I know it hasn't dried. I'm still wearing socks underneath my Tevas (because fashion is whatever you make it). The seatbelt sign has been turned on for our "final descent" (a term I think is kind of dire, dramatic and used too liberally) into Houston's George (Daddy) Bush’s Intercontinental Airport. And now we're descending, seatbelts fastened, large electronics stowed away and seat backs up in their upright position (a lot of redundancy in their directions, If you even will). By coincidence, I don't want to write "Mission Accomplished" until we have touched down on the tarmac, but if George W. Bush can say it prematurely without any consequences, so can I. Touchdown! Now it's time for everyone to stand up too soon and wrestle like sardines in the aisle of the airplane before the cabin door finally opens. Try not to knock out an old lady while pulling your bag from an over head bin, or do. I’d love to end this with more gravitas.