Flying is always an excruciating experience for me. There is nothing that rocks my equilbrium more (that's the drama queen in me speaking) and I wonder why Lois Lane acts so enthralled whenever Superman takes her for a ride.
It doesn't help that I have to go wee-wee 3x in an hour. This little boy rams my bladder as if he were stamping on the mat of a dancing revolution arcade game.
It doesn't help either that there was a man, probably 6 seats away, who was coughing his brain out 70% of the flight. It didn't sound muffled so I knew he wasn't covering his mouth. The Bordetella Pertussis bacteria and H1N1 virus in the air were having a party.
And then there was my seatmate on the right, a young male wearing hiphop clothes who was encroaching on my personal space and rubbing the skin of my virgin elbow. Ewwww. Did I mention his dandruff? Double ewww.
Of course there's my seatmate on the left, the handsome dude of my wildest dreams who ignored me while I stewed. I would have fondled him under the jacket if I weren't nauseous. So I tried to tell him that I was nauseous, but he just looked at me blankly from beneath his eyelashes and snored away. It's funny how he doesn't snore at home but makes guttural sounds when his nose is congested on the plane.
And who could forget the baby who screamed her lungs out from behind me and sent reverberating waves into the pinna of my ear, down my tympanic membrane and banged my ossicles like cymbals? That was unbearable, made worse because it went on without let-up for hours. I love babies especially if they're my nephews and nieces, godchildren, and friends' kids ... but children who cry nonstop like they are about to be slaughtered without their parents lifting an eyebrow to control them annoys me.
Thank God we're now in Pinehurst, safely ensconced under the covers of the bed in Residencia Inn. We set out exploring yesterday and had lunch in this quaint cafe.

The paintings on the wall were for sale.
The lobster bisque was yummy.

These are reasons why I still pack my bags, go through TSA, ride on airplanes and temporarily forget that I hate to fly.
I know ... call me masochistic.