Somewhere between Oxford and Memphis, we passed a dead armadillo on the side of the road—paws curled toward the sky in quiet surrender. We hoped it wasn’t an omen.
(If it was, it didn’t start with the rental car—shout-out to National for being the one part of this trip that didn’t go sideways.)
First gas station: twelve pumps, none working. Could’ve been an adventure, but we found another one before things got exciting.
Resting heart rate: 122 bpm. Clearly, I need to give up lattes. It’s less “I think I’m having a heart attack” and more “if I do have one, please don’t leave me stuck alone in Memphis while my husband is in D.C. for work.”
And finally—the lovely scent of mildew hanging in the air at our gate. Maybe because a woman sat cross-legged and barefoot nearby, maybe not. Either way: who does that?
More legroom on this flight, though—a luxury we purchased for the low, low price of $85 per person, solely so my husband and I could sit together. It would’ve been $60 each, but that row came with “door responsibilities,” and I’m sorry, I’ve never once looked at an airplane emergency exit and thought, you know who should handle that in a crisis? Me.
Once inside the aircraft, I could smell it—the faint, unmistakable odor of baby poop. The kind that travels. All I could think was, please don’t let that infant be seated behind me. Gratefully, there was not one; however, there was a three-year-old, who spent the next two hours auditioning for Stomp: The Airplane Edition on the back of my seat.
To calm us before takeoff, the flight attendant began the usual announcements, then paused mid-sentence before saying what flight we were on. I guess she forgot. Which is always reassuring when you’re about to be sealed in a metal tube and hurled across the sky at 500 miles an hour.
“Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your flight more comfortable or enjoyable.”
(There is not.)
“Also, if you’re wearing a face mask, be sure to remove it before putting on your oxygen mask.” Because apparently, that needed to be said out loud.
“And remember, put your own mask on before assisting others.”
Yes, thank you. If it comes down to me and the 90-year-old sitting next to me, I’m absolutely choosing me. He’s lived a full life; I’ve still got snacks to review.
Once in the air, I turned around several times, silently pleading with the girl’s mother to notice me—or at least to feel the psychic force of my rage. When that failed, I said (loudly, to no one in particular), “Should I say something? She keeps kicking my seat,” knowing full well my husband was going to say no.
He did.
Ever the peacekeeper, he shook his head, which I took as consent to continue suffering nobly in silence—the true hero of Row 9.
That same three-year-old kicked the back of my seat from tarmac to takeoff to landing—a full two-hour performance art piece titled Let’s See What This Woman’s Breaking Point Is.
Her mother did nothing. Not a glance. Not a word.
The little girl also sucked on something—loudly—for nearly the entire flight.
If you’re wondering what it was, so am I. I’ve ruled out candy and hope it wasn’t her soul.
An hour into our two-hour flight, she was still kicking—now with the added soundtrack of an iPad game, played proudly without earbuds. At that point, I was no longer sure if we were flying to D.C. or directly into the seventh circle of hell.
(To be fair, the girl was otherwise a sweet child—she just needed to learn airplane etiquette and possibly exorcism.)
I glanced toward first class, longing for the peace and quiet of people who pretend to read The Economist while drinking free Chardonnay. The curtain between us—which no one ever bothers to close—isn’t dividing haves and have-nots so much as chaos in two price brackets.
Some of those people just got upgraded. You can tell by the way they’re holding their champagne like it’s a new personality.
I was going to avoid the in-flight beverage service so I wouldn’t have to pee. I’d already had half a Gatorade and half a bottle of water pre-flight—because apparently I hydrate like I’m training for a marathon that ends in a lavatory.
(You’d think I’d have learned something from my flight from Reagan to Memphis, but no.)
My husband urged me to go ahead and get what I wanted, so I did: cranberry juice. Because nothing says wise bladder management like a natural diuretic.
Another person who got in-flight beverage service was the little girl behind me, whose mother proudly told the flight attendant she was “too big for a sippy cup.”
Nothing spilled, but I spent the rest of the flight braced for impact—one tiny hand tremor away from a sticky purse and a slow psychological decline.
When the snack cart rolled around, tragedy struck: they were out of Biscoffs and only serving pretzels. I considered filing a complaint with the FAA.
Instead, I went with plan B—look pitiful and mention, casually, that I have a blog where I review airline snacks.
Moments later, we received not one, not two, but three packages of Biscoffs.
Were they afraid I’d tank American Airlines in the court of public opinion? Maybe.
Either way, I’d call it a win—a sticky-table-tray, high-altitude, cinnamon-flavored win.
I did wind up—as predicted—having to use the bathroom mid-flight, but this time without the call button. The toilet paper in the airplane restroom was mysteriously wet, and I’m choosing to believe it was from water splashing onto the roll. Because believing anything else would require therapy.
I also ran into the Biscoff flight attendant again—who, bless her, showed me a photo of a limited-edition Biscoff cookie like it was her grandchild. Honestly? I get it.
When I returned to my seat, I swear I overheard a woman telling the total stranger next to her about her IBS. I’m sure I misunderstood that one—but I’m confident I didn’t want clarification.
The next hour went by relatively uneventfully, I’m sorry (for you, reader) to say. Except for the crime I witnessed as we deplaned: someone had left two unopened packs of Biscoffs on their seat.
It broke something inside me. For a full minute, I stood there weighing my options—moral integrity or free cookies—before walking away. Growth is hard.
Absurdities and Fires 