To the Back of the Plane

I was in Orlando for the past week. The sunshine state. Humidity. Sweat. At least for me.

And no. Not Disney.

My parents, two sisters, and a brother live in good ole FLA, don’t ask me why, and so I am traveling to Orlando quite often.

I really don’t mind.

The weather is usually better than Chicago’s and I like getting caught up with family over leisurely dinners and drinks. Leisurely is world in the Floridian dictionary.

When I arrived at the airport to head home, I was quickly greeted by a text from my airline that my flight was delayed by two hours. Since I had a connection in Washington DC and was concerned that if I missed that connection I’d be spending the night at DCA. Yikes!

I quickly changed flights and was able to get the very last seat in a 737-800 heading to DCA when my original flight was to depart. Lucky. Yet not. LAST SEAT. Back of the plane.

No. Say it isn’t so.

I was in seat 9A and now I am in seat 33D. By the lavatories. In the back of the plane. No recline. Smaller pitch than with another row.

Crap.

I was on my way though. And would get home tonight and not tomorrow morning. I would not have to cancel appointments. Bonus.

But the back of the plane?

Crap.

Time to humble myself for the right to sleep in my own bed. It’s good for me to humble myself and suck it up. It’s a two-hour flight. And I am home tonight. I get to see my wife, my dogs, and cats. I can get up tomorrow at home, shower and start my very busy day.

Yeah, it sucks. Yet I am home.