Road Trippin'

As I write this entry I am high.

So high.

34,000 feet to be exact. I gotta make one quick stop in Houston and then my time on the road is over. Before the sun sets I’ll be back home. This beat down started back in July, ironically, in Houston. Then Further south for August. Home for a few months, then back on the road for two months. All the while, making trips within trips to various cities for interviews. But finally, no more.

Add onto the general stress of traveling—airport security, delayed flights, catching cabs, trains, shuttles, and renting cars, sleeping in a bed not your own on a pillow not your own, getting lost in foreign cities, eating every meal "out"—the stress of having to switch from sleeping nights to days and back to nights. Plus jet lag. My circadian rhythm is shattered. Last night, I tossed and turned in my hotel room well past 1 A.M. despite having to wake up for a 6:45 A.M. shuttle to the airport. And despite the 3 beers I consumed between 10 P.M. and 11 P.M.

All this would be more tolerable if my wife were able to come with me. Ok, and the cat too. I miss them both tremendously. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I had a kid. I don’t understand why, but people seem to be pretty attached to them.

So kids and travel. Funny story. First, anyone that thinks traveling with an infant is a good idea is clearly fucking retarded. As I’m sitting in the airport I notice just such a retard. He’s dressed in his Dockers and denim button up shirt (I thought that went out of style in 1994) with his corporate man hair cut and “I’m important” PDA contraption strapped to his woven belt (once again, thought these went out about the time denim shirts did).

Well, guess who sits down on me behind the plane. Mr. and Mrs. Important Retard. And little Baby Retard. No big deal, I put the head phones on, put on my sunglasses and lean back for desperately needed nap. Just as I’m dozing off I’m snatched into the realm of wakefulness as my chair and body lurch forward. I look around and see Mr. Retard cruising down the isle. Whatever, accidents happen.

Back to napping. Then, he sits down and I feel something jamming into my seat back. Then out. Then back in. Then out. By this point I’m getting a little frustrated. I figure he’s trying to get something going to placate his kid and decide to let it slide—when the fucker, with his hands, pushes my seat into the upright and locked position. I turn around, give a dirty look and put my seat back.

At this point, Mr. Retard stands up and begins talking at me. I say at me because I have my headphones on and eyes closed so I don’t realize it. The gentleman next to me gets my attention and points to Mr. Retard who is now standing in the isle scowling at me. I take out an ear phone. “Can you give us a little space here?”

Oh. Dear. Lord. I tell him, “When you are asking people to inconvenience themselves for your convenience you should learn to be a little diplomatic about it.” I guess his ticket on the budget airline we were flying entitled him to more space than mine. At this point I decide rather than getting arrested and then miss an exam vital to fulfilling graduation requirements, I’ll just be the adult and concede half the distance of my chair’s recumbent abilities. Fortunately, the flight attendant intervened before I had a chance to run my mouth again and the douche returned to his seat in dejection. As he sat I reclaimed the other half of my lean. I guess they didn’t notice the PDA attached to his belt indicating he was an upper level sales guy, not entry!

Anyway, just one of the examples that has completely convinced me socialized medicine, or socialized anything, is not something I’m willing to pay for. I just don’t think the majority of my fellow humans are deserving of suckling at my motivated teat.

You never know when the guy in the seat you’re jacking with is teetering on the edge of a total freak-out.