Life at 30,000 Feet

I used to spend more time there, literally, than I did on the ground. I traveled every week, at least one day more often 2-3, for two years solid. I was an airport regular, and a pro at getting in and out of there with the utmost efficiency (ever notice this word disobeys the "i before e, except after c" rule).

Those days are behind me as of last October, and I am a saner, nicer and better woman for it. However, I did forget one of the minor joys--flying first class and drinking a (free) glass of wine (or 6).

Fortunately for me I still have my status, so when I do fly, such as today, I do it like a trophy wife heading to meet her cabana boy in Cabo. Which helped me remember how much better one glass of wine is at 30,000 feet--oooyyy!

You have no problems with a glass a wine and altitude on your side. Your every life's dream is suddenly attainable, and damn you look hot in the cramped airplane bathroom that smells like...flowers...at that point in time (translation: overdose of air freshener to cover the stench of the hole to nowhere you just peed in). You think you have personal relationships with the celebrities and sorta famous do-gooders in your People magazine, and the "business man" next to you who took off his wedding ring before he sat down is suddenly not so incredibly annoying--just laughable.

It is lovely. And then you land. Depending on the day, you may as well crash your car on the way home.

Not me, not today. Because the idea of one more glass of wine while flying the oh so friendly skies is enough to keep me going.

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