I learned something new.
The only thing worse than flying hungover, is flying during a really bad breakup.
After spending the better part of my last day with my boyfriend sobbing, he dropped me off at the airport, so I could fly home one last time.
I said goodbye to the man I love in a movie-esque scene at the airport, where he looked deeply into my eyes and told me he’d miss me.
I didn’t cry through security or immigration, which is a small miracle as those two steps make me want to cry at the best of times. I managed not to cry as I waited for my flight and through the additional hour because my pilot was delayed in an airport on the other side of the country.
Though all of this waiting, my flight response is rearing its ugly head, likely because there was no one to fight. My brain is screaming, ‘I have to get out of the United States, I have to get away,’ I wanted to run and scream … but running and screaming were not going to get me on the flight home.
Finally the flight boarded and we pushed back from the gate. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and the knot of tension at the base of my skull began to relax. We waited on the tarmac as the wings were de-iced, and then we waited and waited some more.
That urge to panic started growing again.
Then the flight pulled back up to the gate because something wasn’t quite right with the wings of the plane and the maintenance crew wants to check it. I was breathing still, but it was less calm and more hyperventilating.
To keep people calm the flight crew turned on some music and, because I have obviously done something horrible in a past life, it was country. And not even decent country, but that that ever so uplifting my dog ran away and my lover left me type of country.
By then I knew I’d lost the battle. I was cold, tired, stressed and more upset than I’d ever been in my life.
In an effort to prevent my seatmate on the full flight from thinking I’m totally nuts I tried to keep the crying quiet — leaning against the window with my black hoodie, pulled as far over my face as it will go.
Just great, it occurred to me that I likely looked like the Unabomber and with my tear-stained face I wasn’t providing much comfort to the flight attendants, who gave me a vaguely concerned looks. I decided the best course of action, as running and screaming are still not an option if I want to stay off the no-fly list, was taking advantage of the chance to use my cellphone.
Who to call? Where I live it was too late as my three hour delay was taking me well into the early hours of the morning. My best friend lives in Africa and my cell company has blocked my calling her. I tried my mother, she’s out. I left a message.
In a last ditch effort I called my little brother, who aside from a five minute conversation earlier that weekend, I had not spoken to in nearly three months. He picked up. I got as far as his name, before I started sobbing into the phone.
My brother, bless his heart, took it all in stride and started babbling about the most inane things — the weather where he lives, a recent trip, plans for the weekend. Poor kid — I never call him and when I finally do, it’s a disaster.
He helped me pull together. I cleared my throat and said goodbye and promised to call when I am marginally saner.
The doors of the flight close again and we push back for the second time. I held my breath refusing to believe we were really good to go until we were taxiing down the runway. We do and by the time we take off, I am asleep realizing I will survive this too.
The good news, I’ve managed to stay off the no-fly list and the airline sent me extra flight miles for the inconvenience of being stuck in the airport.
I think Delta is just getting used to my crazy. I’ll have to tell you about my midnight drunken phone call to their help desk … but that’s another story.
Next time I’m going back to drinking heavily before flights.
[…] fact, this blog was started because of a breakup, and the story behind it, which I have termed the international […]