How NOT to Start Your Vacation

Now that it’s over and done, I can look back at my very first flight and chuckle at my total misery. A little bit anyway. One chuckle. Maybe. I might need a little more distance from it, actually.

So let’s start from the beginning…

Sunday morning dawns and I’m hopped up on excitement and nerves like I’ve been mainlining caffeine for the past 12 hours. I slept but only because we exhausted ourselves first when the swimsuit modeling session turned into a porn session. Speedos… Anyway, so I’m skipping around the house quadrouple checking that I have everything while still keeping the bags small and not heavy. Little guy, little clothes, little suitcase. I am the ultimate travel companion. No extra fees here! And really when you’re designing your week’s wardrobe around a Speedo, it’s easy to have plenty of room left in your luggage for everything else.

(Like 8 bottles of lube. I think Jazz packs with the zombie apocalypse in mind. Like lube might be endangered then and it could happen at any time.)

Then we zip off to the airport…and everything slows down to a crawl. Getting through security wasn’t painful but it wasn’t my favorite way to spend an hour. Do people need a reminder not to have a gun in their bag? Does that come up often? Oops, totally forgot that’s where my .357 got to, my bad. Then into the glass container with my arms up to have a machine spin around me and I can’t be the only guy who fought back the urge to cup my boys in defense against the x-rays. (I also had to resist striking a pose, but that could just be me.) Jazz got wanded. He looks a little fierce in the morning.

I admit that getting on the plane first and having big seats and more room in first class made me feel really posh and important. I wanted a glass of champagne and a hot towel. I felt like I should wave at the masses as they walked by us into coach, but Jazz held my hand down.

Everything was absolutely peachy until the flight attendant closed the door. Sealed in. Trapped. Oh dear. I really didn’t expect to have an issue with that. Jazz recognized my rapidly-losing-it face and started talking me through everything that was going to happen. I got out the pamphlet on how not to die in a plane crash, hyperventilated a little, and Jazz put it back in the pocket with promises that he’d save me so I didn’t need to worry about whether my seat cushion would float as promised without testing it first. Because how often do they test that or the mask things that’ll come down for oxygen? Yesterday or when they made the plane? This is important information. What if mine’s broken?

Breathe. Just breathe.

And then we were moving. That wasn’t so bad. Like a really tall bus wandering around…until the bus was a missile aiming up at the sky and I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming while I was squished into my seat and possibly dying. I might’ve had an out of body experience. Oh look at that cute blond guy holding hands with the bearish guy. Aren’t they a nice couple. Oh wait, that’s us.

Why is it so LOUD? I can’t hear you! Level off? Stop yelling? Make sense, man! Ohmigodohmigodohmigod!

So I hid in his arm pit. I’m not proud. I tucked in, curled up, and tried to lull myself into a coma while breathing only the scent of my Jazz like we were home safe in bed. I couldn’t explain away the shaking and noise, but at least, when we died, we’d be together.

Did you know planes mostly fly in circles? Big circles going up, a little bit of time going straight, then more big circles going down. And if you have a stop-over like we did, they do all that more than once. Then there’s turbulence making your insides bounce around and that never-ending noise in ears that keep popping.

Did you know there’s a little white paper bag in the pocket in front of you? Jazz knew exactly where it was, shook it open, and held it in front of me before I realized that’s what I needed. Yes, folks, even with Dramamine in me, I puked my Cheerios into that little bag at 30 thousand feet. That was not the mile-high club I’d considered joining.

(I’m told I hadn’t taken enough Dramamine far enough in advance of take-off. Dramamine can suck it. It had one job and it failed.)

Things are a bit hazy after that. I know Jazz maneuvered me across his lap so I could lay down. I saw him pass the little bag to the flight attendant and her give him a new one like they were spies doing a secret exchange. I had some sips of ginger ale and a cold napkin or something on my forehead. Jazz aimed the little air thingy at my face for a while…until I thought about all that recycled stranger breath getting blasted at me. I sucked on a minty tic-tac. I don’t know what anyone thought about me stuffing my arm up Jazz’s shirt to play with his chest hair, but if petting him makes me feel better, I’m gonna do it! And I did feel better.

The landing wasn’t great because I had to sit up and buckle in again. Round and round we go… I just folded myself over, kissing my knees, and Jazz rubbed my back. All I could think of was the fact I’d have to do all this again in under an hour and then again after that in a few more days. Maybe the concierge could find someone to give me a tranquilizer for the trip home…

Thankfully, getting on the plane first also means you get off the plane first. Under Jazz’s guidance, I weebled around until we found our gate for round 2. I totally snuggled him. Right there waiting for our next flight, I clung and tried to find a happy place. Somebody up there must like me because I didn’t get sick on the second flight. Wasn’t happy, but no puking. Finally, we got to baggage claim, then I got my toothbrush out and went into the restroom. I felt a little more human after that, which was good because then I could look around while we drove to the resort.

(Stay tuned for more stories tomorrow!)