I remember one of the flight attendants giving me two mini bottles of wine and ushering me back to my seat, but only after I must have spent at least two hours talking their ears off and drinking most of their cart. Thankfully, the boinking couple were asleep by then, though it wouldn’t have mattered because I was drunk as a skunk, and must have passed out soon after that.
Speaking of, the couple are now sitting up in their seats and sipping coffee and giggling intimately, so obviously their bout of makeup sex made everything right again in their world.
Maybe it would have worked with Chris.
The thought flits through my mind as it has a million times this last week.
Had I been too hasty to break-up with Chris? I mean, I would imagine most people in my shoes would kick them to the curb and never look back. But was there something between us that would have been worth saving, something worth the sacrifice of looking the other way, of having all trust burnt to the ground?
Truth is, no. I know I did the right thing. But it’s been weighing on me anyway, like my life split into two on that day, and I had a choice to either continue on with Chris in my life, or cut him out and go out on my own.
And so here I am, out on my own.
I sigh but even that makes the knives in my head dig deeper.
Not the best way to arrive in a new country.
I slowly put the bed away and head to the lavatory to wash my face, brush my teeth, then go back to my seat and spend a good twenty-minutes doing my makeup, hoping to hide all traces of my hangover. The last thing I want is to see my family while looking like an ogre.
It’s not long before the wheels are bouncing on the tarmac, which causes my own stomach to do the same.
Oh…no.
Please, no, no, no, no.
I hate throwing up. If I had ever gotten sick or hungover in the past, I would do everything possible to keep the contents of my stomach firmly inside me where they belong.
I’m trying desperately to do that now, but as the plane bounces again, going for the worst landing ever, I know there’s no stopping it. I’m reaching for the barf bag in the seat pocket just as it’s all coming up, making a very vain attempt to hurl inside of it as quietly as possible.
No such luck.
As the noise from the plane’s brakes dim, I’m yakking so loudly I sound like a bear trying repeatedly to cough up a honking goose.
“Oh my god, gross,” the girl in front of me says, while a few other people on the plane make sounds of disgust.
I can’t even care. It just keeps coming, louder and louder. I’d laugh at how ridiculous I sound, if only this wasn’t so horrible.
Finally, the plane comes almost to a stop and the barf bag is full and I’ve never felt so gross and embarrassed in all my life. It’s one thing to throw up on a plane, it’s another to do so sounding like a bleating goat on helium. My face is so hot, I’m at Tomato Zone 2 (when my skin on my forehead matches my hair).
I just sit there, gingerly holding onto the edge of the bag, wanting so desperately to head to the lavatory and throw it out, but the minute the seatbelt sign comes on, everyone is an asshole and stands up, blocking my way to the back. I have no choice but to sit in my seat and wait until everyone passes me by.
So I sit there for literally ever, brushing my hair over the side of my face so I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone, and wait until the plane has pretty much unloaded.
Then I rush to the lavatory and dispose of it.
When I come out, the flight attendant who got me drinks all night is looking at me with an overly sympathetic look on her face.
“I guess I should have cut you off a little earlier last night,” she says to me softly. “You’re not having the best of luck.”
That’s the understatement of the year.
I give her a meek smile and then hurry over to my seat to gather my stuff and get my suitcase, so damn grateful to get off this plane.
I’ve never been to New Zealand before. Hell, I haven’t traveled anywhere outside of North America, except to Chile once for an athletic wear convention, and most of my trips have been for work. I should be more excited than I am, but it’s kind of hard when this vacation is getting off on the wrong foot.
Somehow though, I make it through customs without any problems, though the official did seem to study me carefully, probably because I still look a little green and antsy.