For the past week or so, Alex and I have been asked if we were excited for our trip. Yes, yes, we'd reply. We just want to get on the plane. Just get us on that plane, watching movies and reading trashy novels. Once we're in the air, oh how excited we'll be.
Folks, be careful what you wish for. I just emerged from a 10 hour trip in a tin bird and by hour 6, my head was between my knees as I groaned, "Dear God Almighty, get me off this thing."
I don't know what my problem was, other than my being...me. It's not like we had to suffer in steerage. Everyone else seemed to drift off to sleep after our very dry short ribs, while I was wide awake, with ants in my pants and 452 Diet Cokes.
Maybe it's because those bastards got to drink. 'Oh, port with dessert? Don't mind if I do!' I, on the other hand, sat there in unflattering sweats asking for more water. The flight staff probably thought I was pregnant.
I watched a couple of movies, I tried to read but the more I tried to relax, the more I bounced off the walls. Mom, Dad and Alex all slept like babies, waking refreshed and pleased with themselves. As we prepared to land and just as I was about to slit my wrists, Alex pointed out I was wearing two different socks, a fact my family still find hilarious.
I don't find it hilarious. I find it fucking stupid. They look the same! Both socks are white ankle socks. Big deal.
We're now killing time at Heathrow where I've noticed a lot of people have what 4th graders refer to as a "staring problem." Why don't you take a picture, Nigel. It'll last longer. Our flight for Dublin leaves in 2 hours and I simply cannot wait to land, get our bags, grab a cab, check into our hotel and crash. I haven't slept in 24 hours (exactly. I just did the math.) and I am definitely, not that it's rare, in no mood...