Being a somewhat egotistical kid, I pride myself on being adept at a great many things. I can, for instance, take a completely neat and well-organized room and, after living in it for a scant five hours, turn it into something that even post-prison Martha Stewart wouldn't touch. I also strike a pretty respectable (probably not the right word choice, but okay) imitation Paris Hilton pose in pictures and am a crackerjack at making up nicknames for people. Maybe I'm the only one who insists on using these nicknames, but I really don't see how that detracts from my talent.
What I admittedly cannot do is travel via plane. This presents a problem since my home is roughly a thousand miles away from the University and I don't particularly enjoy driving tours of Southern interstates. Thus, unless I plan on pogo-sticking home, I must bite the bullet and board a plane.
The fun begins at the ticket counter, where I am generally forced to do electronic check-in, even though it makes me incredibly and perhaps irrationally uncomfortable. Judging from the way the kiosk attendants push me to do the electronic ticket check-in, they must get a set of free steak knives or a koozy for getting the most people to fumble clumsily with the e-ticket touch-screen.
Those screens are insanely sensitive. I always fear I am going to breathe on the screen too hard and end up booking myself a one-way ticket to Cleveland.
Once past eager kiosk attendants with visions of koozies dancing in their heads, I head tentatively toward security. I say tentatively because the elderly ladies who always work airport security at the airports I frequent never seem to trust me. Even after I show them the bobby pin that set off the metal detector, these seniors seem to think I am a criminal mastermind.
"Ok, miss. Why don't you and your 'bobby pin' come over here for a full chemical test and cavity search." They don't seem convinced when I tell them that it is silly to think that someone who can't even work an electronic ticket is capable of tripping up a plane with a bobby pin. Nevertheless, I applaud the measures being taken to ensure my safety. And I'm sure if there were a legitimate threat to the plane I was boarding, Ethel Barker, age 92, who is painstakingly probing me with a metal detector, would be all over the situation faster than you can say "early bird special."
Once on the plane, things hardly improve. Despite what the well-meaning flight attendant tells me over the intercom, I am never going to be able to "sit back, relax and enjoy my flight." This is probably because moments before this cheery message rings over the intercom, the same flight attendant has looked me sternly in the eyes and instructed me on how to secure my oxygen mask. Trust me, the warning about securing mine before helping others is totally unnecessary. I've watched Titanic and have seen that selflessness in times of crisis gets you nothing but the shoddy edge of a piece of driftwood. And I do not like edges.
I have a tendency to get more than a little airsick during take-offs and landings -- a problem that I think would be drastically helped by being allowed to listen to my CD player (no iPod here) during these crucial moments in the flight. Sadly, there are rules against this, which I understand have something to do with ensuring that the plane gets a clear signal from the take-off tower. Often I am tempted to rebel and break out my headphones, but am held back by the thought of the plane going down and the pilot shaking his fist at me and yelling to the other passengers, "My signals got crossed thanks to this idiotic blond girl with the headphones listening to Kelly Clarkson!"
Thus, instead of listening to music, I clutch my airsick bag and desperately try to read U.S. Weekly. I can't tell you how many nauseous moments have been alleviated by news of Britney Spears. And trust me, I'm well aware I may be the only human ever to say that.
Undoubtedly, my favorite part of any flight (besides when I "deplane") is when the snacks and drinks are distributed. I must say, however, that the joy I receive from my tiny bag of trail mix or pretzels has been somewhat diminished thanks to a disturbing new trend. People are turning down the (in my opinion) highly delicious snack. At first it didn't faze me, but now I can't help but feel a smidge like a glutton as I wolf down my mixed nuts while the person occupying the seat next to me simply sips his tiny plastic cup of water in a dignified fashion. If this is the classy new travel trend, I want no part of it. What I do want are those delightful mixed nuts that are now going uneaten. There is no reason that all that honey-roasted goodness should not be eaten by somebody who fully appreciates it.
After politely elbowing my fellow passengers in the teeth in order to get off the plane first, all that is left in my plane odyssey is the baggage claim. I wait eagerly for my grossly over-packed red bag to come rolling down the belt and into my waiting arms. When it doesn't, I have no choice but to consult airport personnel (who trust me only slightly more than the elderly women at security) who smile sympathetically, check their records and, after consulting my electronic check-in information, tell me that my bag is right where I indicated on my e-ticket that I wanted it -- Cleveland.
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