Why My Mother Doesn’t Like Me To Travel Alone
Also known as
Why I love Xanax
I am an oddity. I am a travel agent who is hands down pee your pants terrified to fly. I have been deplaned more times than I can count (fortunately before 911. Now they would just as soon shoot me.) Bless the poor flight attendant who was trying to be discreet while advising the gate agent that I needed to get off the plane by telling her I didn’t feel well. In my panic to get off the pressurized death coffin I kept screeching at her that “I feel fine! I said I don’t fly well”. Oh well, hindsight being 20/20….
In any case, then I discovered Xanax. Hallelujah, Praise the Lord. Oh, don’t get me wrong – I’m still absolutely positive that I’m going to die. I just don’t care. I have got it timed to where I take exactly enough to be conscious and relatively inconspicuous long enough to pass security and walk onto the plane, but will fall asleep before that plane takes off. It’s an art. People long ago stopped traveling with me. I have one friend who will still travel with me and she pretty much ignores me. She gives me fun things like her DVD player or a coloring book to play with and that will pretty much keep me entertained for the long haul.
However, sometimes I do travel alone. My favorite Xanax-riddled memory of a trip involved a plane change in Denver. I was on my way to New York, and since I’m a travel agent and was traveling on something that used to exist, called free tickets, I was required to dress for it. This means a skirt and hose. I had a rather lengthy connection in Denver, but I knew there was a shorter connection that I could stand by for. So, upon arrival I proceeded immediately to the gate and got on the standby list. The gate agent told me to come back in 45 minutes. I tottered off to the ladies room, dragging my two bags behind me, and figure if I’m quick about it I have time to run to the upstairs bar at the other end of the terminal, which is the only place one can smoke. Off I go on the moving escalator, me and my bags as fast as we can, up the stairs and into the bar. There is nowhere at all to sit, so I stand at the bar, have a soft drink and a smoke, grab my bags and speed walk my way all the way back to the other end of the terminal where my connection awaits. A few yards from my destination a nice young lady walks up to me and says, “Excuse me Miss, but your skirt is tucked in the back of your pantyhose”. So I look back, and sure enough, she is absolutely correct. And for the record, my skirt is not tucked up “a little” in the back…my skirt is completely and entirely rolled up into the top of my pantyhose, and I have just spent 45 minutes parading my not inconsiderable backside up and down the entire United terminal at Denver International. Here’s where the Xanax comes in – I looked at that train wreck and went “Huh. So it is.” Made the appropriate adjustments and went on my way, with a complete lack of well deserved embarrassment. By the way, Denver, thanks for the heads up.