This one time in band camp, and by band camp I mean the first of two back-to-back eight-hour flights, I got food poisoning and after six hours of monopolizing the full set of economy class lavatories, and being quizzed about which diseases, exactly, could I have picked up on my trip, I found myself at the airport emergency clinic, buying a remedy that was worse than the affliction. And that sucked, let me tell you, but thankfully that didn’t happen this last time. Instead, I got seated next to a testament to the power of love. Three of them, to be exact, and no, Celine Dion wasn’t involved.
These two guys–35A and 34B–not knowing one another, sat one seat apart and both were on their way to the cradle of civilization–nope, sorry, I meant Europe–to propose to their girlfriends. Oh, and both were from the same small town in the United Somewhere of America. Naturally, seated next to and behind them, respectively, was the consummate gassy and drunk pessimist, suffering from a small bladder (me). And although I fought each of those eight hours to insert my off-putting sense of lovelessness and despair into their upcoming week of bliss, I have to admit I was sold on the love thing. At least until the five drinks and my Xanax wore off.
What a great story though! I’m fairly certainly this is what you’d call romantic but the last surely romantic experience I’ve had was when I was 17 and at that point it could have been hormones, drugs, love, an iron deficiency, or a combination of the above. But hearing this story channeled the hopeless romantic in me, also reminding me of my grandmother who never misses an opportunity to assure me that my time will come. I can’t tell which time, exactly, she’s talking about but if it’s death, I’m well aware. On a related note, to seal the deal on the experience, 34C was traveling on to South Africa as part of her three-year journey to spread her husband’s ashes into every ocean in the world. In all honesty, I found this to be one of the most romantic things I’ve ever heard. I’d be lucky if the guy down the hall in my nursing home dumped my ashes in the washing machine thinking they were laundry detergent.
Long story short–or, short story finished–it was definitely a better way to get off an eight-hour flight than being sent to the medic and buying a box of suppositories for intermittent use during the second eight-hour flight and only halfway through four legs of hell. I’m not sure my love life will ever move beyond a triple set of suppositories in an airplane lavatory, but it’s stories like this that at least tempt me to get out of the bathroom and find out. So thanks, 35A. I hope she said yes!