Nothing personal, Mr. Bernstein, my stomach’s no good in the air
I did Ed Bernstein a BIG favor last Saturday, when the personal injury attorney invited me to sit with him on a flight to San Diego.
I declined.
Instead, I selected an aisle seat farther back. Turned out, because I ended up next to a terrified woman and a man who passed gas as he slept, this wasn't my wisest choice.
I didn't decline the lawyer's offer because I didn't want to talk to him. I enjoy his company and got to know him during his unsuccessful bid for U.S. Senate in 2000. He's a smart and fascinating man, with far more depth than his "Enough said, call Ed" ads suggest.
I said no because I'm a bad seat mate in rough weather, and Saturday was so stormy and expected to be so rough, the flight attendants weren't allowed to pass out drinks.
Don't call me Ishmael. Call me the Queen of Hurl.
I didn't want to expose Bernstein to that side of me.
Most all my friends have an embarrassing hurl story about me. Friends are ordered to create lively conversation during rough landings so I won't think of what might happen.
One friend who didn't fulfill his obligation on an outgoing flight learned the hard way I wasn't joking. He prepared a list of interesting things to say on the homecoming flight. Come to think of it, he doesn't fly with me anymore.
You've all suffered from the flights from hell.
The kid kicking the back of your seat and never being told to stop by a parent. The endless whistler. The drunks. The crying baby whose parents don't know that giving the infant a bottle will make the ears pop and end the crying. The Queen of Hurl.
On Southwest, where seating is open, it's really your decision to choose a seat mate, but a decision you have to live with, because often the flights are completely full (at least both San Diego-Las Vegas flights were).
There is freedom of choice, and I made mine. A large man was in the window seat, the middle seat was empty, just waiting for someone with a chance of fitting into that squeeze-box, so I grabbed the aisle.
Then the nicest grandmother came and sat in the middle. I know she's a grandmother because she said she had been in Las Vegas, not to cavort, but help her daughter with a new baby. Already, I know this is a good woman.
She sat down and on takeoff, she crossed herself. Did she know something? Soon after, she took out a white bag from the back of the seat in front of her. I wasn't feeling queasy until then.
I can be susceptible to the power of suggestion. If she tossed her cookies, I wouldn't be far behind. Turns out, she only wanted to spit out her gum. Disaster averted.
Now the morning flight is only an hour, how bad can it be? Pretty bad when the man falls asleep and starts passing gas. He may have been unaware of his faux pas; the grandmother and I were plenty aware. But there's nothing that can be done.
Then there is the landing, where she fears death. This is only her third flight in her lifetime.
She shut her eyes tightly, obviously in terror. I just hoped for a smooth landing because this is the time I am most vulnerable.
Both our prayers were answered.
The joy of flying is no more. Now, you're just happy if you get there on time and your bags made it.
Anyway, for future reference, if the flight is expected to be rough and I don't sit by someone I know, I'm not snubbing anybody.
I'm saving them.
Enough said, Ed?
Jane Ann Morrison's column appears Monday, Thursday and Saturday. Email her at Jane@reviewjournal.com or call her at (702) 383-0275. She also blogs at lvrj.com/blogs/Morrison
