Chickens on a Plane

I tell you this story not to deter you from flying, but rather to remind you to count your blessings about the kind of passengers you may have ended up sitting beside in your travels. Because this one? Will surely take the cake.

My friend just got back from Vegas. It was a trip that, being over seven months pregnant, didn't really live up to its expectations. But sometimes when a trip starts off on a bad foot, there's just no turning back. Rewind to getting on the plane, leaving Winnipeg. Sitting comfortably beside her hubby. And then he wanders in. A 52 year old man who's odor arrived just seconds later. How did she know he was 52 you ask? Why, he TOLD her of course. So the 52 year old man who had not showered in about a week sat down next to the olfactory-gland-challenged pregnant lady. Nice.

Now. What a treat she had in store. Because not only did his BODY come with odor, but so did his breath! And how boring would bad breath be if the owner of the bad breath wasn't a close-talker?? Cue the close-talker! Imagine if you will, airplane seats. The proximity of person-to-person. The availability of "personal space". Its limited, no? No. Not to the 52 year old, stinky breath, body odor man. He leaned his stinky self right on over into her personal space. But wait. Its gets better.

So Preggo is one of those women who has a hard time being nasty, has difficulty saying no, can't really be mean without some coaching (where I usually step in to assist). So Stinky 52 is all leaning up into her biznizz and chatting her up about this and that and then she sees it. The spit. The spit that comes flying out of his mouth when he talks. It comes flying out and lands on her arm. ON HER ARM. Where it glistens in the sun and he just keeps talking. Casually, she wipes it away and tries to turn her attention to her TV. She pops in her ear phones and realizes that HE IS WATCHING HER TV TOO. Even though he has his own. Creep-eee. She hears him nattering away and in her politeness pulls out an earbud to hear what Stinky 52 is saying and that's all it takes.

Enter worst-conversation-ever. Stinky 52 starts to tell Preggo all about his dislike for airplane food. Its no good. Its too expensive. Its like cardboard. But he has a fix. He brings his own. Oh good, preggo thinks, maybe he'll shove his yap full of a self-concocted trail mix and be quiet for a bit.

"You know what I do?" Stinky 52 asks Preggo. "I fry up two chickens and bring them with me."

Oh please no, she thinks, for the love of all things airborne, no. He bends down to his carry on stowed neatly in the underseat compartment in front of him and proudly pulls out a tupperware container. Full of chicken. Yes. Chicken. Fried, greasy, homemade chicken. At ten in the morning. Because heaven forbid you just shut up and take the pretzels.

So now Stinky 52 is eating his greasy, white-ish chicken and waving his greasy, disgusting fingers around, talking with his greasy, chicken-flavoured breath and Preggo is just about to die. She lays back and pretends to sleep for an hour, one eye open to try and catch some of her in-flight movie without getting busted by Greasy Stinky 52. Her hubby, to his credit, offered to switch seats with her. But being the sweet gal she is, she declined, saying it "wasn't that bad". ON WHAT PLANET??

And so ended the longest two hours of Preggo's life. So please, when you're next to a crying baby, or a snorer, or an incessant talker, please remember, it could always be worse. You could find yourself sitting next to your OWN Greasy Stinky 52 wondering how the hell you can get two chickens past security.