Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The View Through Frosted Window Panes

I’m on the road again, back in Orlando for a Writer’s Conference. Being a masochist at heart, I am compelled to find a pit if possible and indulge in a bit of self-inflicted torture. Since the hotel is charging me what they call a resort fee which is an additional charge tacked onto the daily rate for things that used to be included, I thought it would be good to get some use out of those amenities. I dragged lazy ass out of bed this morning and headed to the pit. Just getting there would be considered a workout for most people, but I’m not most people and I made it without breaking a sweat or running out of oxygen.

It’s bigger than some hotel pits, and truthfully, not much smaller than the Pocono Pit I go to when I’m at home in New Jersey. The place is a little heavy on the moving sidewalks and has a few weight machines, lounge chair bikes, and of course, a few racks. I checked in at the desk where they wanted to see my room key and made me sign my name. I think they must get a lot of imposter hotel guests who drive out to the middle of nowhere, pay to park, and try to sneak into their ‘fitness center’. It’s the best explanation I can come up with for the high security measures.

Once vetted by the security detail, I helped myself to a dew rag and stepped inside. Holy Smoley. Who knew Romance writers were such masochists? The moving sidewalks were all occupied, as were the racks. My choices came down to a lounge chair bike or the weight machines which, no surprise, stood in a row like relics from a medieval dungeon. No stranger to these sinister leather and metal monsters, I went to work on my batwings and thunder thighs. I looked around the place, hoping Nora Roberts would be there. I knew she was in the hotel and would be giving a speech later. I thought perhaps she would need to work off some public speaking anxiety. I was fully prepared to offer myself as a guinea pig if she needed to rehearse. Who was I kidding? I’m sure her suite has its own torture devices that she pays someone to use for her.

Did I mention this is Florida? And it’s summer? The sign on the wall indicated there was a sauna. No shit. Really? Then I realized they were talking about a whole other room off in the corner. It may be redundant, but at least this time of year it must be cheap to maintain. I wiped the dew out of my eyes and pushed and pulled thinking eventually someone would pass out and topple off one of the racks and I could get in my aerobic workout too. The same people were still on the racks and didn’t show any signs of relinquishing them. I’m not entirely sure they were still alive. It could have been that they died and rigor mortis had frozen their hands around the handlebars. Don’t laugh, it’s possible.

Anyway, I snagged a lounge chair bike and programmed in a nice ride. I figured about three miles would do it. I peddled away, going nowhere at a rapid clip. Condensation frosted the window across from me, making the summer scene beyond appear to be something all together different. I love winter days when the windows are rimmed with a band of frost and the rest of the glass is obscured by opaque ice crystals. Everything beyond is magically transformed. This was much the same. Inside, the room was as steamy as if we’d been baking holiday goodies only it didn’t smell nearly so nice. Outside, viewed through this magical window, a fantasy world awaited.

The ducks waddling on the lawn became fat Canadian geese. The white sand beach around the hotel’s gator pond became a blanket of snow creeping to the water’s edge. The azure sky dulled to gray through the frosted filter. The palm trees… well, there’s no explaining their presence so I just pretended they weren’t there. Hey, what did you expect? This is as good as it gets folks. If you want high-minded literature, you’re reading the wrong blog.

I left the pit, energized (yeah, right), ready to embrace the world of writing, but first there was the Nora speech. We gathered in a ballroom roughly the size of a football field to consume chicken parts that didn’t resemble any chickens I’ve ever seen, and to hear Her Royal Highness of Romance shower magical words of wisdom on us. I snagged a table somewhere around the fifty yard line with a decent view of the end zone. The remaining chairs filled quickly with first timers, all fresh faced and excited. As this was my second conference I was positively smug, after all, I had twice as much experience as anyone at the table.

Nora took the end zone stage. If you score 6 figures every time you cross the line into the end zone, then she’s crossed it more times than anyone, and owns the zone. We can’t help but be a bit green eyed, but we hang on every word. Not just me and the newbies, but everyone in the cavernous room. By the time she wraps up her speech we all feel as if we too can win the publishing lottery. Nora has told us it is so. We have been enlightened. We have seen that even the great one has struggled, not recently, but once upon a time, long, long ago, and so there is hope for us. As if through a magic glass I can see the future. I too stand in the end zone spouting words of wisdom for eager and envious dreamers.

Okay, so the crystal ball is a bit fogged up. What can I say? Soon I’ll be back at home and trekking to the Pocono Pit where the windows aren’t frosted and there is nothing remotely fantastical about the burger joint across the street. This magical interlude will be nothing but a memory then. Let me have my dreams, they keep me going.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Big Questions

On a recent trip to the home improvement store to pick up some pool supplies, I couldn’t help but notice my Cashier had removed her natural eyebrows and replaced them with two amazingly symmetrical thin black lines. Placed well above where they should have been; they were remarkably well done, if not comical. I had to wonder if there is a template one uses to do this sort of thing as I couldn’t draw one line that well on a piece of paper, let alone two mirror image ones on my face, and do it on a daily basis. I suppose they could have been tattoos, but they really did appear to be surface lines. Before you condemn me for being an insensitive lout, no, she didn’t suffer from some hair loss malady, and even if she did, there are other ways, more natural ways, to replace missing eyebrows.

As she scanned my purchases and completed the sale, I wondered what made her think wax pencil eyebrows were a good idea. Did someone, presumably a friend, tell her it looked good? Did she see this in a fashion magazine?

I’ve asked myself the- what was I thinking- question a time or two. There were guitar lessons when I was a tweeny. They lasted about a month before, with shredded fingers; I had to admit I have no rhythm and apparently can’t count to eight. There was the time I rode on the handlebars of my brother’s bicycle, telling him when and where to turn while he powered us through the streets- with his eyes closed. We ended up in a ditch along with a few broken soda bottles, lucky to be alive. Apparently, in addition to my lack of counting skills, I can’t distinguish between left and right. I bought a Chevette once. I don’t think I need to elaborate on that one.

Ever since I signed up for the pit I’ve asked myself the big question on a daily basis. Sometimes I ask it several times a day along with the toddler’s favorite question – why? Why do I put myself through the torture – and yes, after almost 9 months it is still torture. I know there are people out there who report a feeling akin to a drug induced high when they push their bodies via exercise. I am not one of those people. My rhythm lacking, directionally challenged body apparently has never seen an endorphin. The only things I feel while exercising are pain, exhaustion, and shortness of breath. The overwhelming feeling I get when I cease to punish myself is relief. No buzz, no high, unless you count the dizziness associated with the sudden increase of oxygen flow to my brain. I have to admit that’s a pretty good feeling.

Every morning I have to invent a new reason to get out of bed and drive to the pit. I’ve bribed myself with rewards both monetary and edible. I’ve promised myself lazy days in the future, shopping trips, and dinners out. The one thing that most compels me to get out of the house is the promise of a day or two when I don’t have to go. It works something like this. If I go Monday thru Friday I can have Saturday and Sunday off. If I skip a day during the week, I have to make it up on the weekend. This isn’t unlike going to school, or a day job, only there isn’t a pay check and my report card is that I my jeans still fit.

The pit is on the honor system. No one is going to call my house looking for me if I don’t show up. This is ostensibly because I am an adult, and of course the pit gets their money whether I show up or not, so what do they care if my jeans don’t fit. It’s up to me to motivate myself and to come up with the answers to the questions. I’ve got several answers for the why. Most of them have to do with extending my years on this celestial orb, though when I’m sucking in oxygen and trying to make my noodle legs hold me up I have to wonder if the extra years are worth the effort. As for the -what was I thinking- question. I’m still thinking about that one.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Friends and Asses

It’s been nearly two weeks since the treadmill threw me into a ditch, figuratively speaking. Most of you know by now that I don’t actually use a treadmill except on those rare occasions when I seek out the one downstairs. For those occasions I plead temporary insanity.

When I found myself at the bottom of the ditch I was momentarily stunned, but jumped into action making plans and going forth to do what had to be done. At one point I looked up and there spread along the rim of the ditch stood an army of friends and family with outstretched hands. Thanks to them I clawed my way out and once again stand on high ground. What those special people did for me cannot be quantified. The pulled me up, dusted me off, and stood by me until I could stand again on my own. In essence, they put me back on the figurative treadmill.

Now it’s up to me to get back to my regular routines, including the pit which is of course a kind of ditch all its own. After a week of Stress (yes, with a capital s), travel, erratic eating, and no pit, I feel like I’m back at the beginning. Intellectually I know it’s not true. I’ve come a long way from where I began, but a few minutes into my usual routine (The Whoop Ass one) I realized it just wasn’t going to happen. I backed off. My Lazy Ass, that’s the one I’ve been trying to get rid of, urged me to stop all together and go home. My Stubborn Ass argued that the only way to get back to where I’d been was to put the classic Caddie in reverse and backtrack a ways.

Stubborn Ass went on to say that perhaps I could get out the map and try a different road to get back to where I had been. Lazy Ass screamed in my ear that I really didn’t want to do this anyway (she had a point) so why not park the Caddie under a shade tree for a while. I stood there a few minutes trying to decide which ass to listen to (an all too frequent dilemma). That’s when Smart Ass spoke up. She set me straight. First she told Lazy Ass to take a hike (she needed one anyway), then she told Stubborn Ass that going backwards never got anyone anywhere they wanted to be and there wasn’t anything wrong with the road I was on.

Smart Ass went on to tell me that a few days of reduced activity at the pit was better than no activity at all and in a few days the Caddie would be running smooth again on all cylinders. She was right of course. It’s been a few days since the Asses argued. I’ve gone back to my routine, backing off a little here and there but sticking to the same basic regime. It worked before so I have no reason to think it won’t work again. Each day has been a little easier than the one before and I’m confident I’ll be opening another can of Whoop Ass soon.

Thanks to all the friends and family whose hands I greedily clutched over the last few weeks. I bent a few ears and wet a few shoulders too and never heard a complaint. Thanks for pulling me out of the ditch and getting me back on the treadmill. My heart is full and with the help of Smart Ass I hope it will continue to beat strong and true for many years to come.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Some Cans Should Remain Unopened

Have you ever opened a can of Whoop Ass? On yourself?

I have to confess. For the last few weeks I’ve been coasting. Yeah, I’ve been going to the pit everyday minus the road trip days, and those have been way too many of late. By coasting, I mean I haven’t pushed myself to do more. I’ve been content with the status quo. Same number of reps here, same program there. Maybe a little dew falling, but not too much. Shave a few reps off to save time (as if I have something better to do), skip that machine because I don’t want to wait for the guy in jeans to finish doing his thing. Coasting. I’d put the Classic Caddie in neutral and hadn’t even noticed.

After another extended road trip complete with a no holds barred food fest I knew I had to change things. I’d become too complacent and laziness beckoned. I could see it, hovering there, calling my name. I’d become bored with my workout. I had mastered the art of just getting by. Sure, my state of laziness now is light years away from my pre-pit days. I patted myself on the back. Yep, at least I put my transmission in gear, all be it a low gear. Today I decided it was time to shift gears.

Instead of the fat burner program on the ¾ rack, and in honor of last weekend’s road trip to the summit of Mt. Washington, I selected the hills program and in so doing opened a big ‘ole can of Whoop Ass. I made it up the first hill, congratulated myself on the accomplishment and started up the second one with more confidence than was warranted. My lungs struggled to suck oxygen out of the thinned air atop the imaginary mountain. My legs protested the climb. I hung onto the walking sticks with white knuckles. Why…? My brain screamed at me. Because you have too much junk in the trunk, I answered myself.

I longed to pull over and empty the trunk, but I knew the only way to lighten the load was to keep pushing it up the hills. One by one I climbed them; each one a bigger challenge than the one before. Jerry Lee Lewis sang about great thighs of fire. I knew exactly what he was talking about. At the bottom of each hill I coasted, sucking in as much oxygen rich air as I could, preparing for the next mini-mountain. They came. They went. I trudged onward, determined to reach the summit and plant my victory flag.

Minutes crept by. As I approached each hill I argued with my body.

You can do it.

No I can’t.

Yes you can.

Half an hour later I reached the summit and planted my dew soaked flag. I’d opened the can of Whoop Ass and survived.

A year ago I purchased a can of seasoned turnip greens. They’ve been on the pantry shelf ever since. I’ve picked up that can countless times, given it a once over and set it aside. As a Southern woman I’ve eaten my share of fresh turnip greens and never found them particularly appetizing. What made me think a tin can would improve them I can’t say, but there it sits, waiting to be opened.

I took a chance today opening the can of Whoop Ass. I’m glad I did. I’m glad I pushed myself toward a higher goal. It feels good to once again be working for something and I’m looking forward to heading back to the pit tomorrow and giving those hills another try. Maybe I’ll even add a few reps to the resistance weights. The can of turnip greens will remain on the shelf, a reminder that some cans should remain unopened. I think I’ll pick up a fresh can of Whoop Ass though, just in case boredom rears its ugly head again. Next time I won’t be afraid to open it.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Fashionista

I’ve never claimed to be a fashionista. Consider that a disclaimer for the rest of this piece. The pit is no place for fashion, no matter what the L.A. crowd thinks, but still there are a few fashion no-no’s even someone as clueless as me can recognize. For example, suspenders. Not just any suspenders but –if I drop a lead brick in my britches they will not fall down-suspenders. I do love suspenders on a hot guy wearing a crisp dress shirt and trousers, or with a tuxedo. I can’t help but think about what a creative woman could do with those thin strips of elastic and a willing, or not so willing, man. Of course even those suspenders shouldn’t be worn to the pit. (I personally wouldn’t mind however.) From a safety standpoint I’m not sure any kind of suspender is a good idea, especially the heavy duty, I could slingshot to the moon with these suckers, kind. Thus I confess I was a tad bit worried about the C+20 wearing his white t-shirt, sans-a-belt slacks w/NASA approved rocket propulsion suspenders, and Velcro sneakers. He started out on the lounge chair bike which gave me no cause to worry except I did look around for the defibrillator just in case. (Once a girl scout, always a girl scout.) I didn’t truly worry until he took to the weight resistance machines. What if one of those things got caught? Mr. C+20 could be orbiting before anyone could stop him. Maybe I’m a worry wart, but it made me nervous and truly ruined my pit experience that day. I hope he doesn’t come back anytime soon, at least while I’m there. I might take a crash course in defibrillator use, but I am not yanking some old dude out of the ceiling tiles.

Fashion no-no number 2 – Denim. First there was the C+5 guy with the denim shorts and denim biker jacket with torn out sleeves. We aren’t talking denim cut-off shorts or even trendy hang off your skinny ass, my crotch is halfway to my knees, shorts. We’re talking twenty years out of fashion denim shorts… with a leather belt. It would have been a good Halloween get up, but seeing as how it was a cold day in April I don’t think he was in costume. I admired his black socks and sneakers too. They added a lot to the look, but didn’t make it any more appropriate for the pit. Next came the C wearing jeans, long sleeved shirt and work boots. Oh yeah, I can’t forget the leather belt thick enough to double as a tow rope for an eighteen wheeler stuck in a Mississippi swamp. It’s true you don’t have to invest in expensive workout clothes to walk on a treadmill every now and then, but my fat thighs hurt just watching this guy. He didn’t come back the next day so I figured he learned first-hand what happens when you rub two sticks together.

Fashion no-no number 3 – Knits. I’m not sure why anyone would want to exercise with a knit cap on their head, but several times a week this C-20 woman comes in wearing one and never takes it off. I don’t guess there is anything wrong with it, but I have to wonder what the thought process behind this is. In L.A. do-rags are popular for the bro’s but the women tend more toward fashion headbands than knit caps. This however is nothing compared to the woman wearing the cable knit sweater and stretch pants. It was a perfectly lovely sweater. As a matter of fact I have one almost exactly like it. It is not, repeat, NOT, workout wear. Granted, it was cold outside, but the heat was on inside and once I got the classic Caddie warmed up I was wishing they would turn the heat down some. How this woman ran on the treadmill and made a circuit of the resistance machines dressed like Nanook of the North I have no idea.

Fashion no-no number 4 – Improper footwear. If your shoes have leather laces, steel toes, or are sold at places like Tractor Supply and Army Surplus then they are not designed for the pit. If your shoes lace up past your ankles, they are not designed for the pit. If you could patch your all-terrain tire with the sole of your shoes, they are not designed for the pit. Not that I really care. How these people choose to abuse their feet doesn’t affect me unless they have a blow out on the rack or treadmill and a flying piece of rubber hits me upside the head. I’m just sayin’ maybe these people should rethink their footwear choices before someone gets hurt.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Classic Caddie

My 1956 Caddie is a classic, but after several days of travel and way too much fun, the ole girl was feeling her age. I have to admit I’d neglected her care. Regional culinary specialties seduced me and being the weakling I am, I let them. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret a single bite. How can you regret indulging when faced with some of the best Tex-mex and barbeque on the planet? Passing it up wasn’t an option. As it turns out, pushing the ole girl to the limit day after day and night after night proved to be my downfall. Surrounded by faces from the past my brain made the connection and spent the weekend telling the Caddie she was still a teenager. The Caddie did her best to keep up.

I returned to the pit ready to put the Caddie through her paces. I hoisted her onto the ¾ rack and programmed the torture device for a half hour drive. The Caddie’s wheels spun. Her shock absorbers protested every bump and pothole. Instead of a well oiled machine I found myself at the wheel of a rusted out wreck. Five minutes into the drive the Caddie groaned and made for the shoulder. I knew she had more in her so I sucked more air through the intake manifold. The ole girl revved up a notch.

We came up on the second hill and the junk in the trunk threatened to drag the Caddie back down. The timer said twenty minutes to go. I shifted into low gear and shoved the junk up and over the hill. We coasted down the other side. I turned on the air conditioner (the onboard fan) and reveled at the sensation of riding with the top down. I knew the worst was yet to come. I’ve traveled this road several times. There are more hills to traverse, higher and longer than the first ones.

Fifteen minutes in – the halfway point- and the Caddie began to overheat. We came to a flat spot in the road and I poured some cold water into the radiator. She responded immediately and I thought we just might make it to our destination. Another hill, the mother of all hills loomed on the horizon. I poured more water in and tucked the junk in the trunk in tighter. My hands gripped the steering wheel like a vise. I coaxed the ole girl up the grade. Halfway up the Caddie began to lurch. I needed to do something drastic or we were going to end up grill first in the ditch.

I punched the accelerator. The fuel injectors opened wide. The intake manifold sucked oxygen out of the air. The Caddie fired on all cylinders at once catapulting us to the top of the hill. She shuddered and backfired. I eased up on the pedal, shifted into neutral, and let her coast downhill. I wiped dew off the windshield and poured more water into the radiator.

The ole girl purred. For a while there I feared my vintage Caddie had turned into a Ford (Fix or Repair Daily – or Found on the Road Dead) while I was out of town. The ride home was smooth. The ole girl preened the whole way. She had every right to be proud. She’d been in the garage way too long but true to her classic status she’d performed admirably. I patted her on her well padded seat and promised not to neglect her again.

Going Home

I’m usually a pretty mellow traveler. Post 9-11 I have developed a degree of patience in regard to airports and air travel. I’m a firm believer in security so I don’t much care what they want me to do to prove I’m harmless, short of complete public nudity. I will say this; if it comes to that I will rethink my current approach to the security line dilemma. If I’m given a choice I opt for the line with the most business travelers. You know the ones – briefcase and small roll on bag. They travel often and know the ropes. They are quick and efficient going through the line. I avoid families with young children, people unlikely to speak English (if this is politically incorrect then sue me), old people in wheelchairs or who have to sit down to remove their Velcro shoes. Other than these criteria I usually don’t pay my fellow travelers much notice. I will change my thinking on this if strip searching becomes a routine thing. I’ll still avoid the list as much as possible, but I will be scanning the various lines and maneuvering to the one with the best possible scenery, if you get my meaning. If the TSA is going to provide a show I want the best one for my time.

Like I said, there isn’t much that really ruffles me as a traveler. Delays happen. Planes break down. Weather refuses to cooperate. There are as many excuses as there are delays, none of which I can do a darn thing about, so for the most part I find a comfy spot, read, write, eat, people watch, whatever to pass the time. I’ll eventually get where I’m going, no need stressing about things I can’t change. Mostly my fellow travelers amuse me. Going to the airport to people watch is about the most fun you can have and every airport has its own unique brand of traveler. Some are full of business travelers. Some are mostly families wearing mouse ears. Some are international hubs with an energy all their own. I can spend a lot of time observing.

Yesterday I had no reason to be overly anxious. My flights were reasonably on time. (By this I mean I wasn’t going to have to sleep in an airport). I was flying two short routes in smaller planes. The weather wasn’t a deal breaking issue. (reference the sleeping in airports again). All things considered I was a pretty happy traveler when I boarded the plane in Memphis for the final leg of my trip home. The small, two rubber band, plane filled quickly. The seat next to me was still open when the traveler from hell came on board. She dropped her computer bag in the aisle seat next to me and proceeded to push, shove, flatten, remove, rearrange, crunch and mangle the belongings of her fellow passengers. I watched with trepidation as she wreaked havoc on three overhead compartments in order to make room for her roll aboard case.

A bad feeling took hold. My be-atch radar began to twitch. She flopped her designer jeaned ass in the seat next to me, stuffed her Trump embossed computer case under the seat and began poking her finger at her iPhone. By now I’d been in my seat for a good fifteen minutes. My seat belt was fastened. I had my iPod and Kindle within easy reach. I switched on the Kindle as it looked like we still had a while before they closed the doors and I would have to turn it off. (This is the one thing I dislike about ebooks. Can’t read them during takeoff and landing.)

Click…click….click….click….click….click….click. Remember the sound of ivory dominoes? My seat mate is playing some tile game on her phone. Click…click….click….click…click.

By the time the flight attendant barked out orders to turn off ALL electronic equipment my skin was itching. My foot was twitching. My jaw was locked. Click…click…click….click…click…. The flight attendant walked by and her screen went black. He stopped long enough to remind her to fasten her seatbelt. She did. I silently wished it would wrap around her neck and strangle her. The flight attendant moved on, the tile game resumed. Click…click…click…click…

Captain Crunch came on the speaker to inform us of the low ceiling in Newark which would delay our departure some 45 minutes. We taxied out to the tarmac to wait it out. Click…click…click…click…click… A few months ago I spent three hours on the tarmac waiting to be deiced. I was calm through the whole thing. Click…click…click…click…click…. Captain Crunch came on again to bless the use of cell phones while we waited on the tarmac. I developed a twitch in my right cheek. Click…click…click…click…click…

I took the Captain’s blessing to include iPods. I tuned in, turned the volume to maximum auditory damage and still, click…click…click….click…click… I turned on the Kindle, including this in the blessed items as well. Click…click…click…click….click….

I envisioned snatching the offending electronic device and crushing in my bare hands until its silicon parts were no more than sand again. Click…click…click…click…click…

At last the flight attendant issued the order to turn off ALL electronic equipment. The plane taxied toward the runway. Click….click…click…click…click…

Using the most polite voice I could muster under the circumstances I asked, “Could you turn that off? I don’t want to take any chances during takeoff.” Be-atch shot laser beams at me. I prepared to take her down for the sake of the other passengers.

“Just so you know, it’s on airplane mode, but I’m turning it off anyway.” No love lost between us. The plane turned onto the runway, the rubber bands wound tight and off we went. I breathed a sigh of relief, only two short hours to home. Click…click…click…click…click… Well shit.

I read. I twitched. I squirmed. I’m pretty sure the people ten rows back could hear the music from my earphones. Click…click…click…click….click…

From my little oval window I cursed the full moon. I should have known better than fly on a full moon. Three rows ahead of me was first class. Two short curtains hung in front of the coach seats doing nothing to prevent the insane cattle from seeing the dozen or so favored cattle on the other side. Click…click….click….click…click…

The flight attendant offered me a soft drink. My hand shook as I took it from his hands hovering somewhere above the be-atches lap. One slip and the evil little device would be soaked in diet cola. Too late to order the sticky, sugary stuff. Click…click…click…click…click…

There’s a curtain for the aisle between royalty and the commoners. It’s twisted and wrapped into a sort of obscene textile sculpture. Click…click…click…click…click…

I’m entertaining ways to disable my seatmate using only the contents of my purse and computer bag when much to my relief she turns the damned game off and snuggles under the two blankets she removed from the overhead in order to make room for her bag. I could be nice and turn off my overhead light or turn down the volume on my headphones, but every shred of generosity and kindness toward my fellow travelers has been wrung completely out of me.

Eventually we descend into the cloud cover. Goodbye moon. The bad news is- we can’t see Newark. Not a good thing when both rubber bands are nearly spun out. The good news is- we can’t see Newark. The plane drops lower. Newark lies below us like a rusted hulk. The be-atch wakes. We’re on final approach. I’m prepared to spring into action if she fires up that game again. If I’m going to crash it isn’t going to be in Newark because of the be-atch and her clicking.

The wheels screech against wet concrete. I breathe a sigh of relief. Click…click…click…click…click… I resist the urge to pummel her and the mini monster in her hands. We’re on the ground. Surely I can stand a few more minutes.

Captain Crunch reports in. We’ll be parking here for a few minutes while we wait for the ground crew to get to the gate. From my portal I can see our gate. The jet way waits off to one side for us to park. No ground crew. No one. Nada. Zip. Click…click…click…click…click…click…

If I’d been seated in an exit row I would have popped the door and slid down the inflatable slide right then. I did consider climbing over be-atch and storming the door. How far could it be to the ground from a two rubber band plane anyway?

Click…click…click…click…click…