I had to fly on Christmas Eve.
Thankfully we weren’t full so I sat in the last row of open seats in coach, put my feet up on the armrests and ate Christmas chocolates in front of small children passing by.
*DING* I lean across the aisle to my co-worker, Tori. “That one is yours.”
BAD FLIGHT ATTENDANT
I had won the armrest battle with the passenger in front of me and I wasn’t about to leave now and let her reclaim it.
Tori strides up the aisle, unaware it’s the 89-year-old Ebeneezer who has tossed back two double-gins and probably needs assistance to the lavatory.
He’s already tried to pat my polyester-clad booty twice and a trip down the aisle would involve leaning heavily against my body, dangling a gnarled hand over my breast.
The sweaty napkin he pressed into my palm with the phone number to his private residence in Malibu has long since disintegrated under a pile of Corona bottles, Coke cans and coffee grounds.
What exactly would I do at the mansion, I wonder? Push him around in his chair all day?
Off the deck perhaps?
Buh-bye now.
A bald traveler with an adorable son stops by the crew lounge to ask if I have wings?
I offer the Christmas chocolate instead as searching for wings would again necessitate my forfeiting the armchair war.
He declines as I knew he would– his son has already been running up and down the aisle for half the flight. He chats easily and would be charming were it not for that distracting waddle under his chin.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad from another angle.
As I’m contemplating this, he grins–
“So, would you like to have dinner with a handsome stranger?”
I look up the aisle. “Why? Do you see one?”
HOMEWARD BOUND
On the southbound I-405 my sister calls to tell me our Christmas together has been relegated to three hours on a Thursday morning.
Not a big deal for someone with a family juggling holiday parties filled with sparkly-eyed cherubs around the tree but I am not this person.
I am officially, “The Last One Standing.” The last one to get married of all my friends and wading through my latest break-up at what is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year and is most definitely not.
Not if you’re me.
I’m working Christmas by choice this year because in the absence of love I will take the money, honey.
Adding insult to injury, I’m getting hit on by geriatric men, bald men or both. Thus, I hang up on her.
Within 10 minutes my parents call supposedly under the guise of wishing me “Merry Christmas.” I’m a little irritated that Christmas is being used as a ruse as it is nearly 9 pm and they had the whole holly-jolly day to do this.
Nevermind, that I was in Mexico without service. Given we’re well beyond the age for Mom and Dad intervention, I refuse to entertain the call.
Kurt Cobain continues wailing “All Apologies” for me, uninterrupted. There will be no Silent Night here.
Merry Christmas? Bah, humbug.
Leave a Reply