I have flown four times in the past week. Crazy, right? I was completely freaked out about this for months, up even until I boarded my first plane. Was I going to fit in the seat? Was the plane going to just fall out of the sky like every plane is certainly going to one day? Was I going to have to poop on board?
Answers: Yes, no, and no.
They were no big deals. Honestly. My Delta flights were a bit cramped and I needed an extender, but so did the fat-but-not-as-fat-as-me lady across the aisle.
I did have a mega-bitchy flight attendant sitting next to me on his way to his next flight on my first plane. I watched him update his status when he saw I was sitting next to him. That was a good time.
My flights home were on AirTran and I had a good three inches of slack on my seatbelt on both planes. It reminded me why I always fly them.
I didn’t freak out on any of these. I can’t get over that. I even fell asleep on my flight out of Atlanta on the way home before we took off. I was so exhausted. I woke up and we were in the air and I was being asked if I wanted something to drink. I’m almost positive I was snoring. I don’t even care.
The most important part was what happened between the flights. I spent a week with my Michael Curtis. I know. You’re totally jealous.
(Oh, and since this is still technically my fat blog — I ate and ate and ate and ate and laid around a lot and did not gain anything. Yep.)