The .longest hours

As promised, my actual flight back into Kentucky gets its own post.

We finally boarded our 8:15 flight at 10:30 pm.

I always end up in the last row of the plane. On small commuter jets this means an extra cramped, extra warm seat mere inches from the toilet. I think it has something to do with the fact that my company has booked my last few flights for me. Maybe they think I'll be safer back there. Or the woman in corporate travel just doesn't like me very much.

This time, I had the added bonus of a rather large, solid-looking Southern Indiana man as a seat mate. There was no room to put the arm rest down. There was no room to not be sitting actually touching hips with this middle-aged stranger. Did I mention that it was unbearably warm on this particular aircraft without the forced snuggling with a stranger?

He immediately endeared himself to me by ranting for several minutes about how he flew to San Francisco once and a male flight attendant had the nerve to try and hit on him. And as if he had not suffered enough, on the way back home to the greater Louisville area his seat mate was not only African American but an actual transvestite with braided hair and a dress who was part of an entire choir of gay men that were on his flight. Gasp. Oh yeah, I was headed back to Kentucky. I just remembered what that's like.

We were getting one of those mid-Atlantic drizzles you always hear about in nostalgic Christmas songs, which on an airplane translates to feeling like my two year old nephew is holding the plane and bouncing it through the air. It was late, I was tired and firmly believed that falling asleep was the only way to keep my lunch from having a repeat performance. My new best friend wouldn't have it.

When we finally finished circling in the air over Louisville and were set free from our steel torture chamber I nearly kissed the nearest gate agent as thanks for my freedom.