It's bad enough the parade of vertically-challenged, emotionally-stunted men in my life suddenly become elusive when I express an interest in a relationship but now my best friend, SLEEP, is playing hard to get!Last night should have been an exception because my flight from New York to Houston was really delayed and I was all riled up about the inconsiderate asshole sitting next to me. May I? One flight had been canceled, another oversold and consequently, my flight was packed with pissed-off business travelers. When they called for the Elite and First Class passengers, everyone bum rushed the line. "Suddenly, I don't feel elite anymore," one guy remarked when it was evident that 75 percent of the flight consisted of frequent fliers. Needless to say, I wasn't getting a first class upgrade.
Mercifully, I had a window seat in an exit row. So this guy gets on and he's probably in his mid to late twenties, average build. He plops down and as he's getting situated, he elbows me pretty hard but not hard enough for me to say ouch. However, the absence of an apology makes me stare at him incredulously. He rolls his eyes in an exasperated manner as if my presence is to blame for the collision. Then he commandeers the whole row. You may wonder how. I'll tell you. It's clear that he feels constricted in the middle seat so I give him the armrest even though it's mine. He's still unsatisfied. He takes his big fat cumbersome overcoat and drapes it over himself as a fucking BLANKET. But the sleeves, the big, wool (maybe cashmere) sleeve is on yours truly. Then he leans back pressing his left arm against me, pinning my shoulder. Hi, remember me? I'm halfway buried underneath his self-absorbed comfort zone. I wiggle out, turn to him and say, "Do you mind?"
"There's not a lot of space!" he huffs.
"Look, I gave you my armrest. All I ask is you respect my space," I suggest. He takes his sleeve off of me and five minutes later, readjusts his coat and we're back to square one. I lean forward and glare at him. "Do you have a problem?" he asks. I'm so annoyed, I'm having trouble formulating words much less conveying them.
"I mean, if you have a problem, you could politely ask me to move," he says.
Here she blows.
"I know the person who slammed into me and didn't apologize is NOT giving me a lesson in manners!" I yelled. He looks at me warily. This is before the fucking plane even took off. I felt like I was on a long road trip with my older brother who used to play that stupid, my side, your side game. The whole four hour flight, he kept leaning on me. Not because he was fat. Because he was selfish. Jackass.
So once I finally got in, I was tired but too wired to sleep. I ended up watching this infomercial about a new workout gimmick called Fluidity. It's a collapsible ballet bar that is supposed to give you a "dancer's body." I was intrigued. The ballerinas who used it swore by it. Never mind that they were getting paid, the proof is in the pudding or in this case the hot bodies. It was only $40 and I was seriously thinking about picking up the phone until I was reminded about cheat containers dot com. My housekeeper had stacked them for me and I boasted to my roommate that it was the concept not the craftsmanship I had purchased. She went to my closet and pulled out a box at the bottom of the stack. "See? It slides in and out," I beamed on the phone during my delayed flight as she inspected the sucker-magnet. But she just laughed her stupid, self-righteous laugh and told me the whole stack had collapsed.
Now that I've finally reached a point where I can update you on why I'm still awake a second night in a row, I'm suddenly too tired. I'm thinking you probably are, too. Go to sleep, my sweet, there's always tomorrow to read about my meaningless trials and tribulations.
