Those who know me well know that I’m kind of a princess . .
. in my own mind. I’ve never met a tiara
I didn’t like – or immediately wear – and I’m partial to palaces, princes, and
sparkly things. Of course, the real reason I’m a self-appointed princess is
less about Prince Charming and more
about the charmed life. Princesses don’t pick their cuticles or bite their
fingernails with such fervor that it appears that they’ve been attacked by
angry termites. They don’t have bad hair days or worse yet, stretch marks and
muffin tops. They aren’t wrinkled like baked potatoes or covered in freckles
and pre-cancerous moles. Princesses don’t walk around the office for half a day
with their fly unzipped. They don’t get dressed in the dark, so they never
discover that their socks don’t match or that their underwear is inside out.
(Bonus points for those of us who show off our inside out granny panties by
walking around the workplace with our pants unzipped.) Princesses don’t get
called bitch. And although princesses carry Coach
handbags and ride in horse-drawn coaches, they most certainly never fly coach.
Lest I forget my decidedly non-royal status, the good folks
at American Airlines are always willing to give me a free reality check. The
bag check? Well, that’s going to cost $25, thank you very much. In spite of my
frequent flying, I have serf status on every airline. Thus, it was no real
surprise that I found myself sitting in seat 834A on a flight from Philadelphia
to Minneapolis recently. What was more surprising was that my hair was in a
very complicated up-do, I had 15 layers of unwashed makeup on my face, and I
was wearing XXL sweats. In my defense, I came straight from bridesmaid duties
to the airport, and in spite of my best attempts with soap, water, and makeup
remover, I couldn’t remove the seven inches of pore-clogging crap from my
epidermis. (Shameful confession: I had to Google what the outer layer of skin
is called. Lousy liberal arts education.) To say that I looked like a confused,
transgender whore would be putting it mildly . . . and might be offensive to transgender
whores.
Of course, there is no air circulation back in seat 834A, no
matter how hard you turn the little knob above your head. That doesn’t stop me
from trying to coerce any cool air from blowing on me, but it’s a fruitless
effort. I’m sweating last night’s booze out of every pore – and since I am
pretty sure I sprained my liver drinking at this wedding, I could sweat for 72
hours and still fail a field sobriety test. In spite of my intense disdain for
the human race, I feel sorry for anyone seated within an eight foot radius,
because I smell. Bad. (And I’m probably a little gassy but that’s not your
business.) I slide into my seat, grab my ear buds, crank up the Jayhawks, and prepare for an
uncomfortable nap. (See also: I’m probably a little gassy.)
As the rest of the lemmings er . . . sardines file
onto the Airbus A320, I notice the middle seat is blissfully empty. I offer up
a prayer to the air travel gods and consider unfolding my legs and stretching
out when he ambles down the aisle. He’s about my dad’s age, give or take, and
he’s kind of slow moving due to his girth and his cane. Naturally, he’s heading
straight for 834B. Curse you, air travel gods! Of course he’s sitting next to me – a fact that
is abundantly clear after he accidentally gives me an “over the clothes”
gynecological exam trying to buckle his seatbelt. His lips are moving, which
indicates he’s oblivious to my ear buds and planned nap, and after a dramatic
and self-pitying sigh, I clean out my ears and meet Ernie.
Socially awkward is a kind way of describing how I show up
in public. People make me incredibly uncomfortable, so sure am I that everyone
else has their shit together and I’m the lone outcast who missed the memo about
how to be normal. As a result, I actively avoid situations that require me to
interact with my fellow humans. When possible, I avoid eye contact completely
because you never know when you might accidentally engage the crazy. I’m the
person who pretends not to speak English when people show up at my door. “Guten
Tag!” Ernie, however, is undeterred and determined to make friends.
After wedging himself into a seat much smaller than he is,
he props his cane against my leg and begins telling me about his travels. He’s
a Vietnam veteran and he’s on his way home to Mankato, Minnesota after a
reunion with his Army buddies in Washington DC. I’m pleased to hear that these
American heroes were well taken care of in our nation’s capital, where
strangers went out of their way to thank them for their service and even paid
their restaurant tabs at fine dining establishments like Denny’s and Cracker
Barrel.
My head is pounding and the inside of my mouth tastes like a
combination of mint gum and dead turtle. I’ve been in cooler saunas. A raging
introvert, I’ve been forced into foreign, extrovert territory for the past 72
hours and to say I’m exhausted is an understatement. But I can’t turn my back
on Ernie. I mean, I literally can’t move my body at all since I’m smashed
against the window and folded up like some kind of human Gumby with an
inappropriately formal up-do. But there’s something else that’s preventing me
from shutting down this conversation. I think you humans may refer to it as empathy.
Ernie needs little encouragement
to continue our conversation, so I listen and periodically nod, smile, or make
an “uh-huh” noise that shows I’m listening and participating. He segued from
sharing the highlights of his army reunion to a litany of his health problems –
many of which are courtesy of his service to our country and his time in
Vietnam. Agent Orange exposure left him with diabetes; peripheral neuropathy;
ischemic heart disease; and arthritis. Most of his fellow vets have suffered
from cancer – and many have died. He describes what it was like being an 18
year old kid fighting in Vietnam and goes on to tell me how awful it was to
return to the U.S. where he was treated like a leper. Strangers attacked him
verbally and he was spat upon multiple times.
I make a mental note to thank all the veterans I know, and I
think about how we send children to fight for our freedoms – including freedom
of speech – and then we use those same freedoms to act like self-righteous,
ungrateful assholes, and I feel awful. Ernie notices my wedding ring and asks
about my family. I give him the highlights and then ask him about his life in
Mankato.
Ernie tears up when he tells me about his wife. She passed
away two years ago and life without her is hard on him. She died three weeks
before their 40th wedding anniversary – and he’d been planning to
surprise her with a trip of a lifetime; a month in Europe complete with river
cruises and sightseeing. She never knew what he had planned because she fell
into a coma and never regained consciousness. He’s alone now with their two
dogs; Murphy Brown and Astro, and all three of them miss her every single day.
He grips my arm and tells me that time is fleeting and his biggest regret in
life was thinking he had all the time in the world. In spite of my dehydration
and emotional retardation, I’m wiping tears from my own face as I thank Ernie
for sharing his story with me.
We chat for the duration of the flight, and we say goodbye
in Minneapolis. His daughter – a woman whose very name causes his face to light
up and beam with pride – is picking him up for the drive back to Mankato
because he shouldn’t drive at night anymore.
Ernie has given me a tremendous gift. He’s reminded me that
life is fragile and fleeting. He’s shown me that broken hearts may mend but
they’ll never be the same. He reminds me that grief is a sinister and tricky
mistress. And most weirdly of all, he reminds me of an incredibly cheesy saying
about how people come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.
Ernie was seated next to me for a reason – and I will carry the lessons he imparted
with me for the duration of my journey.
In case you’re wondering, a gallon of water, six Advil, and
a long nap returned me to my normal state and after a long, hot shower, my
hair, skin, and smell are back to normal. But my heart? Well, that will never
be the same, thanks to the gentleman in seat 834B.
© 2016 Princess D
