Don't wear high heels. (Not that I would anyway). Wanting to brush up on my safety skills sitting in an exit row, (but more so because I have seen the crash seen in Lost more times than I can count in the past half year), I reviewed the laminated tri-fold safety booklet. They have now omitted words to simplify the instructions. I noted a picture sequence that communicated something like, "Do not open the emergency door if the plane is submerged, if there is a fire outside the door, if the plane is still in the air, and if you are wearing high heels." Wait. Huh? I pointed this out to Michael. "That's a picture of a high heel, right?" Michael patiently pointed out that high heels would create a tear in the inflated emergency slide. Oh. And then I thought, what if people are as dense as I am and simply said, well, I'm wearing high heels, so I won't be exiting the plane once it makes its emergency landing. I'll just have to face my fate. I can guarantee you there would be someone who wouldn't think of simply removing their shoes so they could slide down to their rescue. They'd die in their heels.
I would die in heels. As in, I learned my lesson from flying during my last pregnancy. This time, I rocked the Crocs, cuz three years ago I wore tennis shoes on the plane....and couldn't fit them over my hobbit feet after landing three hours later.
The bulk head isn't always the best for bulk. Yeah, so bulkhead...extra legroom, wheeee!!! No blood clots for this preggo. But what I didn't think about was that the tray table, which is absolutely necessary to balance the ginger ale that I will inevitably take because it's the only free thing available, comes from my armrest, not the seat in front of me. People, I had to push my belly up and around the tray table until it divided me into two big baby lumps. Michael sat next to me with easy clearance between his belly and the table, chuckling at me and making some joke about do I need a lap belt extender, too. Laugh it up, honey. You have just bought yourself middle-of the night feeding duty from January to April of 2012.
No smoking, but if you must, do it in the bathroom. Because in case you haven't noticed before, despite the lit-up no-smoking signs above each seat, and each bathroom door a sign threatening fines and a one-way ticket to the Stillwater maximum security prison if you tamper with the smoke detector...there is an ashtray in the bathroom.
Grandmothers are still grandmothers in the air. The father of a 6-month-old little girl gently held and rocked his baby in the bay of the bulkhead area for a change of her scenery. The little girl smiled, cooed, and looked around happily. Within five minutes, a grandmother two rows back couldn't stand this baby's happiness any more. "You need to find her a blanket," she told the dad. "What?" he asked, clearly thinking he must have misheard her. "You need to find her a blanket. All she needs is a blanket and she'll fall right asleep. I know, I'm a grandmother!" The father, ten millions times the better person than I would have been, graciously smiled and said, "oh, okay," while Michael and I exchanged glances that said "the audacity of that woman!" and recalled countless times when we were told by old ladies to put socks on our baby's feet for heaven's sake.
You don't always get stuck sitting next to the obnoxious talker or the woman with horrendous BO. We met a nice young valet named Wells on our flight out...Wells, whose mother worked for Delta, was heading to Hawaii to explore the islands for two weeks. On our way back, we met a stand-up comedian and actor, who declined my invitation to get on the PA system to work his routine, but did accept my offer of gum. "Wow, you really are a mother," he said as I then pulled out a bag of Chex Mix to share. "Well, yeah," I said, "but I'm also pregnant. I always, always have food."
Vacation is a blessing. But home is still 1,500 miles away. It's good to be back, too.
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