Move Your Ass

NYC View 

I'm off on another adventure today. I have a friend getting married in New York tomorrow so I am leaving on a jet plane. It's more flying, more TSA fondling and more of me hating people on planes. Which brings us to Fuck That Shit Friday. Today I say fuck that shit to being excited you scored a window seat only to realize you were sat next to two of the biggest douche bags on the planet. 

It never fails that these are the moments that I need to take a piss. I am notorious for drinking an extra large coffee on the way to the airport, grabbing another one while I wait and attempting to guzzle 60 ounces of water when I finally get on the plane so I won't be dehydrated. That thimble full of water they so graciously serve ain't gonna quench this thirst. I realize before we even start taxiing that I have made a huge fucking mistake. I am sitting next to a married couple who has been eyeballing my head wrap and complete lack of fashion sense. I go comfort. I assume my yoga pants sans undies, tank top, and flip flops aren't what they consider appropriate plane attire. She is dressed to the nines and I think she may have gotten on this plane by accident, she clearly looks more suited for an opera. Her husband is all business in his tasseled loafers and professionally pressed Armani suit. I don't really know what an Armani suit looks like but let's pretend that's what he's wearing. They are better than me and I know that my urinating condition is going to cause huge fucking problems for everyone involved.

I hold it for as long as possible and even decline my free sample drink. I know I can't make it for the entire two hour flight without bothering Mr. and Mrs. Fancy Pants, but I have yet to figure out a way to let them know that I'm not some hippie who's going to hot box the restroom. She keeps doing the judgmental side glance to make sure I'm not slipping my sticky fingers into her Chanel purse. Do they make purses? Her husband has pulled out his over priced salad and set up a  what appears to be a permanent meal station. I'm on the verge of kidney failure, my eyes are tearing up and I am unable to make polite conversation. Can I wait until he finishes his meal? 

I suck it up and apologize profusely while I share with them the complexities of my caffeine addiction. I'm really sorry, so sorry, oh sorry about your feet, sorry you can't fucking stand up and let me out. They pretend to be gracious about my exit but I feel the burn of their eyes on me as I attempt to climb the maze of their legs. The pleasure of finally draining my bladder is overshadowed by the realization that my crotch may need make contact with a salad in order to make it back to my seat. Could I stay in the bathroom and read my Kindle? Could I collect garbage for the flight attendant? Would it be possible to switch seats? I begrudgingly make my way back to my window seat. That fucking window seat that I was so happy about. As my ass rubs their arms and my hippie toes dirty up her purse, I realize that that was my first and last trip to the closet toilet. Note to self: My carry on must include diapers, a can of mace and a shirt that tell people how I really feel. I'm thinking "I HATE YOU AS MUCH AS YOU HATE ME, SO FUCK OFF".