Who farted?

Déjà Vu doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’ve been involved in more take-offs and landings in the last few weeks than I can count on two hands. I’m still trying to finish the same book I started a month ago and steadfastly listening to my favorite songs over and over on my ipod. I think I’m even wearing the same sweater and flops: my easy-on, easy-off, quasi-strip search, going to the security gate is like a bad date, traveling uniform. I know the drill by now. I can’t take complete credit for this next comedic account of what runs through my mind - Patti Digh wrote a story about the safety seat pocket cartoon characters and it got me to thinking during my never ending take off experiences. I stopped looking at the handy chart in the seat back pocket and watching the flight attendant safety dance charade years ago, but I do try and listen to them from time to time; especially since take off is during that electronics lockdown part of the flight and there’s nothing else of interest going on. This is how seriously I take my safety...



As the redheaded stewardess explained “in the event of a water evacuation, you may use your seat cusion as a flotaion device.” I laughed outloud. I know how many times my personal backside has been semi-comfortably plopped down in an airline seat over the course of my last 15 years of avid traveling, but I could never even being to grasp the exorbitant number of asses that have worn the leather of the seat cusions that I am supposed to carry to my watery grave. In Karma’s true form, right across from me is a white haired man, about 65 years old and about 6’5” wearing a bright red polo shirt and jogging shorts ensemble circa 1970’s tennis courts. John Mcenroe eat your heart out. Yes, there are approximately 45 inches of legs crammed into his seat and about 3 inches of shorts covering what remains. I noticed him in the terminial before he boarded, and thought “who the hell wears booty shorts on a plane?” Of course he’s my neighbor now, 'cause that’s what Karma does to me. It’s like that time when I was making fun of the midget on the beach in Waikiki and then he came over and asked me out on a date for “waaaaay after dinner.” That’s another story and I digress.

My point is legitimate. These seats are exposed to a lot of ass. In rawhide's case over there in 10D, its ass and a lot of hairy old leg. Really, now that I am finally paying attention to the safety instructions, all I could think of was I hope I don’t have to smell years worth of farts soaked into my seat cusion while I cling on to this pizza box sized pillow, dodging sharks in ocean and crying S.O.S. in hopes that the Coast Guard will drop a rescue diver out of the sky.

Welcome to the world inside my head...when the worst you come up with in the-life-or-death-plane-into-the-ocean scenario is your intolerance to rancid flatulence, you’re either really in tune with the universe or really in denial. I don’t know what is worse.