6'4 and Economy

   

 I sit here typing inside of a flying plane. This is THE ultimate test for diagnosing if I really have ADHD or not. How many distractions are there? Well, there's the incessant whirr of the ginormous turbine engine which is spinning at an ungodly rpm, approximately two feet from my head. There is also the child who is sitting behind me, who, for some unknown reason, finds it necessary to press his knees into the back of my seat every thirty seconds. Oh, and there is the simple fact that I am 6'4”, sitting in the window seat of economy class, with two fellow passengers who - much to my misfortune - appear to have missed an activity called sleeping for an unknown number of days, as they have fallen fast asleep within twenty seconds of the plane taking off. So, the odds of me ever getting the opportunity to get up and stretch my legs is looking unlikely at best. I am also fairly confident in saying that the further back the passengers are hoarded into a plane, the less leg room they get. It's times like these that I wish I were shorter. God knows how many times I have tried to imagine how much more comfortable shorter people are when flying in economy class. At this moment, not only am I wishing for first class, but my body requires it.

     My thoughts are all over the place. “I swear, the flight attendants have been standing in the same place for over 30 minutes handing out beverages. When will they get back here?!”, to “why did I have to get a fellow passenger who has whipped out an entire Indian feast next to me in a plastic bag?” This is a complain of mine because, let's be honest, we all know exactly how Indian food smells, and, for a moment, let's be honest again. No one wants to be smelling something so pungent for such extended periods of times in such close quarters.

     New complaint. The passenger in front of me has decided to recline his seat entirely. My legs are feeling the full consequences of this, as the already restrained trickle of blood that was previously flowing to my legs has now been completely severed off. The front passengers decision to sleep has also had a dire effect on my typing ability. My laptop screen now forms an acute angle with the keyboard, I'd say around forty degrees. This has caused me to pull the laptop even nearer to me, to prevent the screen from collapsing onto my fingers. My current typing position is sure to induce carpel tunnel in my left wrist, as it is curled up at an absurd angle. Think of it as a pianist who really overdoes the correct, alleviated wrist position.

     Seriously though, the observation I made earlier about the flight attendants not getting any closer is becoming more alarming with each passing minute. It's exactly like the knight who is riding to the castle in Monte Python and the Holy Grail. He appears to be in full stride on his horse, but each time the castle watchman looks at the knight, he appears to be in exactly the same place. I marvel at this situation for five whole minutes, until I finally notice them progress one inch closer to me.

     My thoughts stray far far away as I type this. If I were keeping tally of what subject my mind wanders to most often, though, my car situation would undoubtedly be on top of the list. I know, it's only been a few hours since I last saw my RS, but the thought of not being able to drive it for the next two weeks is what bothers me. Fourteen. Whole. Days. This will be as excruciatingly painful as the withdrawal period for a heroin addict. Plus, I'm on my way to California. The land of Subaru. The West Coast. The place where Subarus can prowl the streets without the worry of ever getting rusty and neglected by their owners. Every single day I will be reminded of my Subie, and I know I will spend many moments wistfully thinking about it as I see – and hear – other people driving their Imprezas.

     If someone knew my current situation, they may be surprised to hear that I will indeed be missing my RS, because I am in fact selling the car after just nine months of ownership. This is not the car's fault, it's mine. I have a condition where I cannot keep a single car for longer than a year, at most. It's a condition which is currently being researched by many medical companies in order to find a cure, as it can have quite serious consequences on the victim's social and personal life. I, for one, have often withdrawn from family events because I've been either browsing for a new car, or trying to sell mine. I've also noticed a worrying amount of gray hair on my head for my age, and I like to blame it on car-related stress, not the fact that it's most likely linked to my genetics...

     So, I sit here in this plane, kneecaps pressed into the front seat, my legs and feet undoubtedly some hue of blackish-blue from lack of blood circulation, my bum so numb that it doesn't even hurt anymore, and fearful that my left wrist will be permanently stuck in its current, mangled position. But, there is glimmer of hope. The “fasten seat-belt” sign has illuminated, and the stewardess's have announced that we will be landing in approximately twenty minutes. Remember the Indian guy sitting next to me who I wasn't too fond of because of his food? Well, turns out he's a damn good guy and we talk about a lot of things. He recommends I take the drive to Lake Tahoe from San Francisco, saying it is one I won't ever forget. The plane lands and I look out the window and see beautiful mountains in the distance, and just by looking through the plane's peephole of a window, I can tell that the weather is splendid. All of a sudden, all of my niggles vanish and I smile, realizing what amazing times await ahead of me in the next fourteen days.