survival

I survived - but barely.

It's the tiniest plane in the world - like the kind Buddy Holly and Richie Valenz would ride. You have to duck to get in the door - no kidding. We can't even carry our carry-on luggage with us. It has to be stowed underneath in the "vallet" section - which is a really nice word for "the crap we will immediately jettison when our lone engine gives out, and we have to hang glide into a cornfield to save ourselves."

We were warned as we sat in the lobby that there were weight restrictions. If a few extra curling irons, shoes, or People magazines are gonna make-or-break the takeoff - I really do not want to be on board. To make matters worse, I watch as Captain Trevor boards the plane, fist bumping the stewardess. He's got bleach-blonde tips, his dress shoes are Sketchers, and they are untied. I swear he calls the co-pilot "dude."

So, I pop whatever half-pills I had leftover from my last flight into my mouth, and take my window seat. I hate window seats. Plus, it's a seat over the wing - you know, so I can continue to monitor exactly how unstable the whole thing looks, and how much the wing flaps wobble before they become completely unhinged from the body of the plane.

To put my mind at ease I shut the window shade. But the stewardess comes by and tells me to make sure my entire bag is under the seat in front of me, AND to make sure my window shade is up.

"Why?"
"For a safe takeoff."

Are you kidding me? Safe takeoff?!! You need ME to be watching outside to make sure everything is going smoothly?! There are 30 windows on this plane - they are ALL up - including the pilots. What could I possibly be contributing to our overall safety?

So I ask the guy next to me.

"Is lifting this shade really gonna save my life?"
"I don't know," he says, "But they always say it. I think it's so terrorists don't come and shut all of the shades."
"If terrorists are sitting in ALL of the window seats who CARES if the plane goes down."
"Good point," he says.

But the stewardess comes back, so I put the shade up. I look at my seat mate like I am going to vomit airport pretzel and stale xanax all over him. He mouths the word "sorry," and looks away.

I am two rows behind the emergency exit. I always plan it that way - none of the actual responsibility of having to save lives, but close enough to make a quick getaway. I am always close enough to climb right over the seats if need be - no concern about who I might have to step on to get there. Trouble is, this plane is so small that a pre-teen Chinese contortionist could not fit between the top of those seats and the roof. I will have to go around. But the lady on my side doesn't look like she could open a jar of mayonaise let alone the vacuum sealed door of an aircraft. I decide to use the other exit - the guy there looks pretty ripped, and I am pretty sure his door will open. Hopefully he is still conscious upon impact.

We take off. The noisiest takeoff I have ever heard. At first we are buffeting along - surfing the wind like the Wright Brothers until Captain Trevor finally catches a wave. But it doesn't last long - we keep bumping and dropping - just like in that movie where the rugby players crashed and had to eat each other to survive. That will be us. And the first person I am going to eat is that stewardess who made me keep my shade up.

Miraculously, 90 minutes later, we land. Both emergency exists are still closed, my seat mate is relatively unscathed and nobody has been eaten - but I still have to fly back home.