Anyone who knows me personally can attest to the fact that I have the worst flying luck of all time. For the majority of you who only know me through the Internet, let me give a brief and 100% true record of my in-flight history.
In 2003, a Dutch woman physically assaulted me on my way to a family trip to Hawaii. My cousin and I sat behind her and may have thought it was funny to kick her seat every time she fell asleep or break out into song whilst watching Spice World on our portable DVD players #spoiled. She kept shushing us, which only made us sing louder and add some passionate hand gestures that may have interfered with her comfort level. When we got up to de-plane, I shoved my cousin into her for a domino effect and then she literally whipped around and smacked us. But actually. Like straight up turned around and slapped us in the face. The stewardess saw, told our parents (who had abandoned us in coach) and then airport security got involved… and she wasn’t allowed into the state. MAHALO! She didn’t speak a lick of English, ultimately got deported and we were police escorted to our hotel because we felt “threatened.”
In 2006, on a flight to Miami, I got seated next to a Persian family of four who reeked of lamb kabob and Elizabeth Taylor perfume. Between reapplying their lip liner and speaking at decibel that any extraterrestrial in space could hear, I was traumatized. Okay, it wasn’t that traumatizing but I did have an aversion to shawarma for a few months after that and it was difficult.
In 2013, on my way to Europe an elderly woman had a heart attack (and possibly died) in my fucking lap. Calm down, she was like 127. What I could never understand is why at that age she was sitting in Coach? After a certain age where death is probable, details are important. It would be much chicer for her to die in Business Class where she could fully recline and drink from proper glassware… what the hell was she saving her money for? Spring break in Cancun? The real tragedy is that the bitch interrupted my Gossip Girl marathon and I never got to find out if Chuck and Blair lived happily ever after.
In 2014, I flew to Nashville with a man that could not be contained by armrests and indoctrinated me into the Mile High Blood Pressure club. He had to give himself insulin shots at hourly intervals and ultimately passed out from a saturated fat-induced coma and spent four hours drooling on my shoulder while I cried because I was grossed out and my television remote was hidden under a flap of his skin.
Needless to say, flying is not my strong suit. Despite all these infractions, little did I know that perhaps the worst flight of all was not behind me.
Being the Good Samaritan that I am, as I boarded my flight yesterday in NYC and took to my luxury economy middle seat a sweet little Milano babe asked if I would switch seats with her coworker who was seated in the back of the plane so they could sit together. Her friend was a Naomi Campbell doppelgänger (aka black, tall and, probably would throw a phone at me if I didn’t oblige) so I said yes. Basically I did it for civil rights. Let the entitled white woman sit in the back of the plane… #justice.
As I gallivanted to my new seat I was pleasantly surprised to see both my row and the row next to me was jam packed with hot guys in suits. I love a man in a suit. Sure I have a boyfriend but just cause I’m on a diet doesn’t mean I can’t check out the menu. No ring, no thing. Suits = real jobs = nice dinners = happy Jackie. They looked like a row of suave investment bankers and I was instantly wishing I would have worn a more body conscious top… Guess I’d have to just rely on my quick wit and vast knowledge of real housewife trivia, because men LOVE THAT.
I joyfully sat down in between my row of dapper hotties and gave a mysterious yet coy smile. As I assessed the meat market I realized they all had name tags. Hmm… must be attending a conference! Classy!
They seemed stiff and in desperate need of a cocktail. I looked to my left and read the guys name tag “Elder Joseph” I then looked to my right and read “Elder Patrick”. All of these guys had the first name Elder? Strange. I impulsively tried to make idle chit chat and said to them, “I feel like I am the meat in an Elder sandwich! I have never met anyone by that name! It’s a very trendy name, kind of like Apple or Seraphina. Is your dad Chris Martin?” They looked at me like I was crazy.
I noticed the seemingly 30 year old man to my right named “Elder” had chosen Cinderella as his in flight entertainment and the “Elder” to my left was casually reading the Bible. Huh? I then noticed the small text above their once tantalizing nametags that read Church of Jesus Christo? Who the fuck is that? Jesus Christ’s Hispanic bastard child? Were they doing missionary work in Ensenada? Did the altar boy who go their name tags made have dyslexia? What’s with the misspelling? This wouldn’t be all that awkward if I wasn’t a shameless self-promoting troll whose iPad, laptop and cellphone weren’t DRENCHED in my logo “THE BITCH BIBLE” and sprawled in plain sight for Jesus Christo and his disciples to see… that, and I was drinking a Bloody Mary and watching 50 Shades of Grey like Satan’s wet dream.
Soon I could feel them congregating and whispering about me. What started as a potential Elder mile high love triangle very quickly became a full throttle attempted exorcism up in the sky. Nothing burns like the judgmental glare of a pushy Mormon. I made a selfless seat change in attempts to be a good person and in trade got dick slapped by Jesus Christo. I considered jumping out of an emergency exit and calling it a day, but saw the light and know I have much more awkward airplane encounters to live for.
It was rough. But nothing in this life is fair, especially in economy.