The Toilet Adventure

The writings of my clusterfuck life shall begin. Roll back to mid September, when I was dropped off at the Californian airport, unaware of the insanity that was about to begin...

Once past airport security, a few waves of excitement coursed through me as I made my way toward my departure gate. Unfortunately, those feelings were mostly overridden by my trying to ignore the beads of sweat pouring down my face. The backpack strapped to my back was heavy enough on its own, but the oversized purse on my left shoulder and the bulging suitcase trailing behind me were difficult to lug around. When I finally found a chair out of the sunlight near my gate, I plopped down with a sigh of relief and patted my face dry with a hand towel. I was absolutely mortified by the sweat running down every inch of my body and just hoped that no one was staring at my overheated, extremely uncomfortable self.

As I patted, I realized that with a delay of nearly two hours ahead of me, I had some time to kill. I ended up spending most of it using the overpriced T-Mobile hotspot to e-mail final goodbyes to friends and to watch videos on YouTube. I refreshed my e-mail inbox an embarrassing amount of times, constantly hoping that the person I hated to say goodbye to most had sent me something. He hadn't.

When my flight was eventually called, I packed everything up and somehow found that despite it all fitting when I had left my house, none of my belongings would slide back into place. With bags-a-bulging, I took one last look at the sunset over the hills of what had been my home and boarded my plane. I swallowed back any sense of nostalgia that was threatening to enter my thoughts, and tried to instead focus on the relieving thought of getting to put this luggage away. Trying unsuccessfully to not whack anyone with said luggage as I waddled through the tiny aisle, I was hit with a sense of dread when I neared seat 34A. The only single window seat left in my cabin was beside a very, very large eastern couple. With all my heart, I hoped it wasn’t my seat, then realized what a jerk I was being. “Don’t stereotype, don’t stereotype,” I told myself as I began trying to lift my overstuffed suitcase into the overhead bin. No one budged to help me, even though I was visibly struggling. Checking the seat labels one last time, hoping maybe it wasn’t mine, I accepted my situation and gestured toward the couple that the empty seat to their left was mine.

They made a show of having to get up to let me in, and the English faces around me gave me sympathetic looks. I inwardly chided them for being so judgemental: “Don’t stereotype, don’t stereotype!” after all. However, within seconds of finally settling in my seat, I realized that I had every reason to stereotype. The smell of this couple was overpowering, and the man beside me was so massive that any idea I entertained of having an armrest was just plain silly. As was having any leg room at all, for that matter. Throughout the whole flight, he refused to sit with his legs closed and took what little leg room I had. As for my arm rest, which of course also served as the remote for my television set, well- he decided it was also his and any time I tried to claim it back, he was aghast at my audacity. Within an hour, my right arm was cramped, my legs were stiff, and my already fragile spirits were completely dashed. I tried to ignore the nagging thought that I had actually picked this seat online a few hours before, with the hopes that I'd be able to see downtown London when we arrived.

After five hours of being crammed into that seat and its accompanying smells, I couldn’t take it anymore. My bladder was screaming at me, even though I’d avoided any liquids offered to me during the flight. Most people around me were asleep, but not to worry: in a few moments their bleary eyes would be open and focused on my row. I forcefully tapped on the shoulder that had been digging into me during the whole flight and said, “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to stretch and use the toilet.” He stared at me blankly, pretending not to know what I was saying. “I HAVE TO PEE,” I said a little more loudly, realizing that it was make or break time. He looked at his wife angrily and she in turn leaned over and began yelling at me, not a word of it intelligible to my ears. When she was done yelling, they both began moving, her huffing and puffing, him motioning for me to just climb over him so he wouldn’t have to move. Normally, I would have been accomodating, except for the fact he was just too large and there was no way I could move over him without there being straddling involved. And that was just not happening.

Realizing he’d actually have to get up, he noisily moved into the aisle. As a result, every single eye in the cabin was on me as I walked toward the toilet.

“Screw it. If I can sit for five hours, I can stand for four more,” I thought to myself as I walked, avoiding making any eye contact. With that thought, I went right through my cabin and continued all the way to the toilets in the back. Picking my new seat out, I opened the sliding door and plopped down. I managed to waste quite a bit of time in the tiny airplane toilet, experimenting with my makeup, plucking my eyebrows, and sitting on the seat fiddling with my Nintendo DS. Yet, despite my determination, the time crept by slowly in the back of the plane and I realized I had no choice but to face 34A.

Without getting into too much detail, the rest of the flight went poorly. No sleep was to be had, despite the Lunesta I’d popped after the Toilet Adventure. The discomfort overrode prescription strength and I was jolted awake every few minutes. Once we were landed, I was filled with dread at the thought of the heavy luggage that I would soon be facing. This was officially the worst flight of my life. Because of lack of overhead space, one of my suitcases was on the other side of the plane, so I had to wait for everyone to get off before I could get it.

As a result, I was the last person off the plane and found myself blocked when I tried to enter the terminal by none other than the couple I’d been sitting next to. They were yelling at some airport attendant about a wheelchair, which apparently was an argument that had to be done right in the doorway. Despite my years in education, my patience was shot. “EXCUSE ME,” I yelled with more than a hint of irritation. Nothing. Only more yelling at the attendant.
“Oh fuck it. I don't technically have my student visa, they’re probably going to deport me anyway,” I thought so I pushed my way past them, being careful to not knock anyone over, but be forceful enough to get by. It worked.

Customs was easy enough, as was getting my luggage because at that point the only bags left circulating on the carousel were mine. Two airport attendants were required to lift my 200+lbs of suitcases onto my cart, but after a bit of manuevering and creativity, we figured out how to get all five loaded on in a way that I could push them on my own. I was in high spirits after that, their jokes and thick Cockney accents reminding me of how much fun I’ve had in the country. Even though my stints have been brief, I do consider England a second home. I was happy to be back. Despite desperately missing my life and someone back home, I felt relief at being back in a country that, even though it drove me absolutely mad some of the time, usually left me pleased and content. Yes, I was happy to be back.

So It Goes

When I decided to actively write about my life across the pond, I already had my first instalment planned. It was going to be some heavily thesaurus-supported narrative about the range of emotions I’ve experienced within in International Terminal at SFO, the point of which my new life was going to be beginning. So much has happened since I turned off my American cell phone and walked through the revolving doors of the terminal that I can’t even begin to write in the mindset of the hopefulness I had that afternoon. Who knew that switching off my phone and handing it off to my father for safe keeping would be so symbolic of the end of a major chapter of my life? And who knew that everything of it that I was clinging to would unravel so quickly, so painfully over the course of a few days? This isn’t the way it was supposed to happen, and this certainly isn’t where my life was supposed to be going.

My emotions are constantly yo-yoing to the point of pure exhaustion, only made the worse by my keeping my personal promise not to pour alcohol and various other substances into my system once I left stateside. If only I had known two weeks ago what I did now, I might have given myself a few more weeks before pledging to clean my system out!

No, taking the edge off by those means is probably the worst decision I could make. Instead, I’ve somehow got to suck it up and just simply process the events of the last few days. Then after that, with whatever’s left, I can begin on the last twenty-three years… God, the thought of that reality is so daunting, so terrifying that all I really have the energy to do right now is be sad and type.Clearly, this is a low moment, but I’m not quite so low that I don't think life won’t go on to better things. I just wish it’d hurry up and do so already. Don’t get me wrong- there have been high notes since I arrived, and I know there will be plenty more. Afterall, so it goes, make some lemonade, life will work itself out in the end, and all that jazz right?