Last Friday night, as I wiped flecks of mascara off my cheeks, I wondered if life in my head was funnier, and more exciting than in most people’s heads. Does everyone find it exciting to imagine the plane they’re in plummeting to the ocean far below? Or is it just me?
Kevin and I were on a mini vacation to Victoria to celebrate our anniversary. We had flown on two planes that day. I usually ignore the safety card in the seat pocket in front of me, but that day I decided to humour the WestJet flight attendant by following along.
“Look at this,” I said to Kevin. “If you need to evacuate the plane on land, you just open the emergency door. But if you’re on the water, you slide this thingy down, so the water doesn’t come into the plane.” We were flying over the ocean at that point, and Kevin didn’t look amused. “And the seat cushions are buoyant, so you put your arms through the elastic underneath and you’ll float when you jump out of the plane.”
That flight was the most turbulent I’d been on. The sudden drops thrilled me (and made me a little sick). I spent the entire flight imagining what a crash over the ocean would be like—lights flashing as the plane started to plummet and oxygen masks dropping.
I have a real hero complex, so I imagined calming people down and instructing them to brace themselves. After impact, I would help people to remove the cushions off their seats and help evacuate the plane. (The flight attendants who have been trained in emergency procedure were not involved in my fantasy.)
I’m embarrassed to write that I even imagined blogging about the near death experience . . . the frigid water . . . the white-capped waves.
Our plane landed in Victoria without incident.
We checked into our hotel and freshened up a little before heading off to my sister’s for dinner. I almost never wear makeup, but I applied some foundation (there was still a hint of my black eye from two weeks earlier), a little lipstick, and mascara. After all—I was in the city. ;)
My sister made an amazing dinner complete with beef roast, Yorkshire puddings with gravy, and cheesecake. The effort she’d gone to blew me away since I knew how busy she was with her six-month-old son.
After dinner, I noticed something white flapping under her arm—a tag. “Your sweater’s inside out,” I said with a smile. She laughed and started to slip it off her shoulder . . . which revealed a puddle of baby spit up. She shot me a look of horror, and then we both started howling with laughter. Tears came to my eyes as I held my stomach and rocked back and forth. (I tried to reign it in when I felt the snort laugh coming on. No, not the snort laugh!)
As I wiped the tears from my eyes, I remembered my own baby-in-the-house years where I barely had time to brush my hair and smelled like baby spit up for months at a time. Oh, it felt so good to laugh with my little sister.
Back in the hotel, I groaned when I looked in the mirror. I must have been grinding my fists in my eyes while I was laughing and crying, because I had two black eyes from the smeared mascara.
“Do you think life in my head is more interesting than reality?” I asked Kevin.
It was his turn to laugh. “Definitely.” :)