The airport has always been a catalyst for my anxiety. The walk to the small plane, the trot up the stairs. I could die, ya’ know.
Sitting down in my window seat, I whisper, “At least I can see the clouds.”
The 6-month-old next to me should be kicked out for disrupting the small peace found looking out of my prized window.
A man with duck shoes stomps through the small isles. I imagine he doesn’t know his circumference. The empty seat next to me is praying for its vacancy, but all in vain. He smells.
A three-hour flight, next to a man that smells. Great.
The window seat has its disadvantages. The corner where one’s feet would go is rounded, allowing for virtually no foot room. In a fair assessment, the ceilings are 6 ½ foot tall, allowing little room for error.
The longest flight of my life had to be next to a man with incomprehensible body odor, a 6 ½ metal ceiling, and an infant screaming beside me.