I get motion sickness. I have to sit in the front seat during long car rides. I have to take a Dramamine every day on cruises AND wear the goofy pressure-point bracelets. Luckily, because I fly for work all the time, the vom-inducing waves of nausea don’t ordinarily come a-knockin’ when I’m flying. Ordinarily.
Last week I flew to Boston via Virgin America (an airline I want so badly to love, but they make it so hard…). I was in the window seat, happy as a clam googling and watching TV and charging my laptop, minding my own business. Over the loudspeaker the captain said “Folks, we’re about to begin our descent into Boston, I’m turning on the seatbelt sign and it won’t go off again until we’ve landed”.
Just then the Luna Bar I’d called breakfast at SFO said “Wait, were you talking to me?” and starting doing a very suspicious dance in my stomach. I turned to the gentleman next to me, who’d proven himself an ally when my headphones were too loud and I was going to miss the Diet Coke lady, and announced that the landing had better be smooth, that my stomach was unhappy. He tried his best to distract me, he asked questions about my job and what I was doing in Boston and if I’d ever flown Virgin then OH SHIT.
Right there. In the window seat. I barfed. How. Embarrassing.
As I was frantically sealing my barf bag and wiping the tears out of my eyes I kept repeating “Oh my god this is the most embarrassing moment of my whole life.”
Then I felt the man next to me gently rub my back while saying “it’s ok. I have kids and I fly all the time, I’ve seen this before”. I felt better instantly, sealed my barf bag, grabbed my carry on, and ran off the plane. I hid out in the ladies room until all of my fellow passengers had retrieved their bags from the carousel.
14E: if you’re reading: thanks. I wish I’d caught your name. I’d send you a Luna Bar as thanks for your kindness.