The first time I flew across the Atlantic (I say that like I’ve done it a lot, which I really haven’t; I’ve done it twice – once there, once back), I was fairly certain I would die.
Not in a plane crash. I don’t worry about that too much. I was almost convinced I would die from deep venous thrombosis, more commonly known as DVT.
This is when a blood clot forms in your legs as a result of inactivity and can move to your lungs and you can die. My sister (a nurse) had to reassure me numerous times that I was not (a) old, (b) unhealthy or (c) pregnant and therefore the chance of this happening was ridiculously low.
But the chance was still there!
Which meant the fear was still there.
I’m sure people got sick of me talking about it every time I mentioned the plane ride. But I had a plan: Old lady stretches. For the full nine hour flight I rocked my feet from my toes to my heels and back again.
Unfortunately, I was an awkward person (ha! sorry, still am – it’s funny to think the awkwardness is left in the past) and I felt a little on display walking around the plane as other people were doing, so I remained seated and kept doing the stretches. I drank minimally before and during the flight so that the bathroom wouldn’t be necessary. And I did my best to navigate the issues of sitting in a middle seat.
What issues of sitting in the middle seat? I’m talking about the politics of shared armrests and dealing with window blinds I couldn’t close because the window seat passenger was asleep and reaching past him would’ve meant reaching over him which just felt like the kind of situation that goes horribly wrong in a sitcom.
But, as mentioned a few times on this blog, my life isn’t actually a sitcom.
So no one else saw these things as adventures. They saw a forgettable girl sitting in a middle seat reading a book or watching whatever crappy movie was on the shared screen.