Come Fly With Me

If you should ever want a new acquaintance to stare back at you with curiously scrunched eyebrows, inform them that you don’t like pasta. I don’t know why, but they will almost immediately jump to the “you’re weird” conclusion and leave you alone.  

It almost always works.  

I had to use this technique this past week with the couple sitting next to me on a plane to Denver. It’s not that I’m unfriendly; in most situations, I am. It’s my fear of flying that brings about this antisocial behavior. Well, that and the fact that for some reason, I always seem to choose the seat next to the annoying people. I have this same lucky streak at Arlington Park, too. Should anyone ever need assistance picking a last place horse, I am your woman.   

Earlier:

We had received the astonishing news from the insurance company that my daughter would be covered for the extended treatment that she absolutely needs at an eating disorder recovery treatment center. Elated, we leapt at the opportunity and accepted without question.   

But....(there’s always a but, right?) The approved treatment facility that could take her immediately was located in Denver.   

Denver?! That’s not close to Morton Grove.   

As moms, one of our top priorities is ensuring the safety of our children. We baby proof our homes, strap our kids in car seats and instruct them not to run in the street or lick electrical outlets. When they get older, we screen their friends, their dates, their backpacks and become master password crackers in an attempt to protect them from the demons in the outside world.

Unfortunately, when the Stranger Danger threatening one’s child is within themselves, there is no amount of safety-gating or bubble wrapping you can do to protect them.   

We were at a crossroads where this type of professional intervention seemed necessary and an immediate presence in Denver requires a plane trip. For the past several years, I have been in a heightened super mommy protective mode with my daughter due to her issues. The only thing that scared me more than the airplane was dropping off my daughter 900 miles away at a sight unseen recovery center in a city we’ve never even visited for an indefinite amount of time with unknown therapists.   

Boarding the enormous 777, I directed her toward the better of the two seats (the one that had a window and wasn’t on top of the bathroom) and ashen-faced, sat down next to my seat mates who, I soon discovered, both needed a bath, a fork and a dictionary.   

They were writers, they said, as they loudly debated whether the character in their novel should choose the word “big”, “huge” or “large” to describe something as such.   

“Is huge bigger than large? Is large bigger than big?”. They pondered this at high volume for quite a while as they nibbled at some sort of noodle dish out of a tin container with their fingers.    

Already on edge with the hospitalization drama over the past couple of weeks, aboard an aircraft and unable to stand it any longer, I intervened.   

“Huge is bigger than large.” I said.   

“Are you sure?”   

“I’m sure. I’m a writer.” Now knock it off.   

No such luck. They continued discussing the plot of Battlestar Galactica episode that they would have written differently. Their blaring dialogue caused people several rows in front of us to turn around. Based on the looks on their faces, they weren’t amused. As I pondered what I had done in this or a previous life to deserve this, my seat mates occasionally picked my brain for other ideas and offered up a second container of finger noodles in friendship.    

“Oh no, thank you, I don’t like pasta.” An eyebrow raised. It was working.   

“What?! Everybody likes pasta.”  

“I don’t.”   

The eyebrows came together and that was it. They continued to irritate me the remainder of the flight with their ear piercing rhetoric, but they didn’t speak directly to me again.   

I dropped my daughter off at the treatment facility, hugged her, told her I loved her and walked away before she saw my complete breakdown. I hopped back into the cab and headed directly back to the airport for my return flight, trying to take in the few minutes of time I had in Denver to take in the beautiful scenery.

The cab driver saw my obvious distress and told me that my daughter would be okay and he knows this because, back in his country, he was kidnapped and tortured and he turned out fine.   

Swell.   

The second plane ride involved a Chatty Patty who, when we hit Xanax-resistant turbulence, proceeded to chant “Jesus, don’t take me now!” over and over. My future carry-on luggage will contain a few new must haves: the antisocial iPod and a blindfold. No pasta, though. It wasn’t a lie. I really don’t like it.   

So, how was your Tuesday? I’m still flying from my adrenaline produced Rocky Mountain high. Do you have any airplane seat mate stories you’d like to share? Certainly, I can’t be the only one who always hits the jackpot and I could use the laugh.