It’s not as good as the Chicago trip. How could it be? While I made all the appropriate considerations to ensure the most pleasant flight possible, it became painfully clear from the get-go that this one just wasn’t in the same ball park.
The seats shrank and became terribly uncomfortable. What happened to the plush, luxurious, comfy, divine, happy seats from the Chicago flight? Now I’m squished in between two strangers with barely enough room for my ever-expanding ass, and we’re all politely refraining from hogging the arm rests, so we type with our elbows glued to our ribs. We have all of our plane toys and distractions tucked beneath our legs in overstuffed bags that we have to dig through to satisfy our never-ending ADD can’t-sit-still problems, a task that’s made even tougher with politely confined elbows.
I’m not happy.
I’m restless and bored. What happened to the zen-like relaxation of that late-night Chicago return? Only when I close my eyes and think about that or when I dream about my snuggly new pajamas does a smile creep across my face like dawn slowly breaking up a dark night. My heart jumps. My eyes get a little wet. And I feel that happy Chicago feeling.
There are different ways to plug in to happiness. One comes merely in thought. Reliving an experience, dreaming about a new one, or just conjuring up a picture in my head can remove me immediately from my stress and take me to the good stuff.
Words on a page increase my heart rate and leave me waiting breathlessly for the next sentence.
A ding or a ring makes my insides tumble. A voice takes me deeper still.
A look into the face of Love sends me over the edge.
And touching, even accidentally, elevates me to some crazy place that poets struggle to define.
No, it’s not the best flight I’ve ever had, but when I get into those pj’s tonight, I intend to do some heavy-duty thinking.