There are some entirely dedicated flight attendants that I've worked with. They are people that can fly almost every day for most of a month. They are content with a number of days off that they can count on one hand.
I am not that person.
When I'm gone for too long, I begin to feel isolated and out of touch with my life at home. It's difficult to have consistency in my relationships, keep up with a to do list (kind of difficult when you're absent), and I am not a great phone talker. (All of my friends just emphatically agreed).
Eventually, things begin to unravel. I start to get kind of cranky and nervous I might start to exhibit Chris Brown-like tendencies. And Bryan and I get kind of tired of asking the other person to repeat themselves when we have spotty reception.
On December 23, I embarked on an (almost) two-week journey of flying.
I would love to say that it didn't end with me wanting to pull out all of my hair, collect twigs, and create a nest in which I would reside and forever neglect all human obligations.
But that would be a lie.
And maybe just a little dramatic.
|An older gentleman on my flight from New York to Miami gave tiaras and glittery top hats to our crew and his friends. He was sweet and it made me smile.|
Christmas Eve in California, Christmas in Missouri, New Year's Eve in Miami, and the first day of 2012 in Phoenix. There was some New York thrown in there for good measure. And a leisurely stay in South Carolina which I will share later.
I took it one day at a time. When I finally made it to my last trip before I would make it home, I was ready to roll around in glitter and hug everyone I saw.
After an hour long mechanical delay before one of our long flights, we had finished our first service and I was taking a break, talking to one of the guys I was flying with.
What's funny is that very frequently, people do not know how to open the doors to the lavatory. It's as if everyone is temporarily employed as a mime, or they treat the door as if it may be on fire. My favorite is when people try to open the door by pulling on the ashtray that has been left as an aircraft accessory since the good old days when you could light up a cig in the pressurized cabin.
So, I didn't think much of it when a young woman came back and appeared to become more acquainted with the door before entering.
That is, until, her eyes started to flutter and close and she started to crumble into a pile onto the floor.
My first medical emergency.
As I tried to catch her, she fell away from me and was thankfully braced by a seat and caught by two men seated on either side of the aisle.
Thankfully, we spend a lot of time in training preparing for these situations. And also, there is (very fortunately) almost always someone on board with medical experience. A lot of vomit and medical supplies and ginger ale later, we didn't have to divert and she was safely and comfortably back in her seat with a boyfriend that wasn't really sure what to do.
We made it to our layover where it was a breezy sixty-eight degrees in the middle of winter as the sun went down.
Things were turning around.
The next day was the last of my holiday-edition flying adventure. I'd make it back to New York early enough to hop on a plane back to my bluegrass, and everyone I knew would be waiting at the airport for me with giant colorful poster boards and smiling and crying.
Or Bryan could just pick me up in his car and that's just as exciting.
The alarm was set for an early morning - only to quickly learn that we had another mechanical and our early flight out was seven and a half hours delayed.
No flight home for Fran after all.
I made the executive decision that 2012 began on January 3 for me. If it's okay with everyone else, this year for me is only going to be 363 days.