Flying is the most convenient torture
Traveling isn’t fun on any given day. But doing it the day after Christmas or any holiday is a marathon of fatigue, coffee breath, and Cinnabon.
Flying is the most inconvenient convenience around.
My Christmas weekend flew by. I was still digesting the onslaught of meat and bakery goods—the customary Christmas diet—when I got up to get to the airport following Christmas day. I didn’t wear a belt because my rapid obesity was holding them up better than my belt ever could. “I’m not wearing a belt to save time going through security,” a fat Tim said to himself while packing his bags in the dark.
Following the instructions of my dad—and every dad to ever exist—I got up extra early to arrive at the airport 12 hours early.
I got up at 2:50 a.m., which sounds pretty early. But it’s not that bad if you’ve had plenty of sleep and I had just put in a solid 2 hours. I thought by watching 1,000 YouTube videos inches from my eyeballs would be the perfect sleep-inducer. Surprisingly, it made sleeping that much harder.
So, after taking the risk of sleeping through my seven alarms, I decided to get what little sleep I could so I could make my trip as miserable as possible. I awoke from my speed-sleep with eyes just solid red they were so bloodshot.
Well, you can always sleep on the plane.
Ah yes, the plane. How could you not sleep when the air pressure is squishing your head? Can’t turn down sleep with all of this hot mouth-breathing going on in the cabin! The Wright Brothers basically invented the airplane because sleeping in their warm bed at home had become such a nuisance.
“One day, I hope I can bring people the best sleep of their lives, sandwiched between two fat ladies flying to Toronto” – Orville Wright.
It’s also difficult to sleep inside of a flying tube when it’s filled with crying children and body odor. On one of my flights, I sat next to a man wearing a leather jacket. He took it off just as I was about to pass out from exhaustion. For whatever reason, this was a multi-step operation with each step striking me and him saying “Op!”
Then I realized the jacket was keeping in the smell of his seemingly decaying body. It was life old roast beef threw up on a pile of asparagus.
I hope to never fly again. I’d rather endure a long car-ride filled with bathroom stops and mini-meals made of gatorade and gas station hot dogs. I’d rather endure all of that than have the one person who has to drive me to and from the airport stab a doll that looks just like me throughout my stay.
Death to the airport.