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We left early for the airport, but things still got off to a rocky start. First, I forgot my pennyroyal tea.* (Short story: hormonal imbalance, no period unless I'm on the pill, no pills unless I get my period. Long story: scroll down.) Then the bottle of Sobe in my backpack had a little run-in with the asphalt, leaving one pocket full of broken glass and both the bag and my hands uncomfortably sticky--and it'd be fifteen hours until I got to Dublin, eighteen total to Mark's place where I could actually unload the damned thing and wash up.
And I hadn't even gotten into the airport yet.
The traffic was horrible, so despite leaving early, I arrived with just over an hour to spare...and of course the TWA check-in counter had only two people working and was backed up out the door, so just checking in and getting a boarding pass took that hour.
Good thing the flight was delayed, eh? Of course, the other TWA flight to Chicago was cancelled altogether--and they were determined to shove as many of those passengers onto the first flight as possible. The terminal was loud and so tightly packed that you couldn't tell where one gate ended and the corridor began. You couldn't even hear the announcements from the desk.
I've got a touch of sociophobia; I don't do very well in crowded situations, or with extended exposure to people, even just family. It leaves me stressed out and twitchy, and if I can't retreat--just into my own head sometimes--I may panic. I was determined to just sit down and calm down until they boarded my row; I said goodbye to my mother and grandmother just past the mob around the gate, found a place on the floor, pulled out a book and sat down.
They followed me to where I sat down and stood over me, hovering, looming, never more than two inches away.
I'm not going to be home for a long time, I know. I'm their girl, I know. They couldn't just walk off and leave me in that mess, I know. I know.
But the crowd had me really freaked already; I was in desperate, urgent need of some personal space, some breathing space, some alone space. By the time I got up and went to the desk to hear the rows being boarded, it wasn't the crowd that had me ready to jump out of my skin, it was my own family. I couldn't tell them this, of course. I still can't. They'll find a million and one ways to take it, all the wrong way, and I just don't feel like feeling worse about leaving than I already do.
I was so nervous by the time I got on the plane that I didn't even say anything to the evil wench who'd stolen my window seat. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise--it gave me those few precious inches of aisle space.
If the TWA terminal at Lambert was insane (and it was), O'Hare was just sadistic. I'm so utterly traumatized by O'Hare that I can't even begin to describe it. (But I'm working on it.) So I move along: Aer Lingus. If TWA sucks (and it does), then Aer Lingus sucks big nasty donkey mung.
The stewardesses hated the passengers. The passengers hated each other (a natural side-effect of coming within 100 meters of O'Hare, I think). The plane had all the charm of a ratty '70s van, with worn carpeting, semen trails, an 8-track deck that doesn't work, and a lingering odor (since '85) that no one can quite identify. (The TWA flight, at least, was an '81 station wagon with loose wood panelling, shaky windows, and dog-smell.) The lady next to me, besides apparently being determined to get drunk, couldn't understand the difference between 'my seat' and 'your seat': as in, your elbows belong where? Yes, in 'your seat'.
Aer Lingus: big nasty donkey mung.
You'd think arriving in Dublin would've been a relief. You'd be very wrong, but it's an understandable mistake--it's hard to top a day like this...
And I hadn't even gotten into the airport yet.
The traffic was horrible, so despite leaving early, I arrived with just over an hour to spare...and of course the TWA check-in counter had only two people working and was backed up out the door, so just checking in and getting a boarding pass took that hour.
Good thing the flight was delayed, eh? Of course, the other TWA flight to Chicago was cancelled altogether--and they were determined to shove as many of those passengers onto the first flight as possible. The terminal was loud and so tightly packed that you couldn't tell where one gate ended and the corridor began. You couldn't even hear the announcements from the desk.
I've got a touch of sociophobia; I don't do very well in crowded situations, or with extended exposure to people, even just family. It leaves me stressed out and twitchy, and if I can't retreat--just into my own head sometimes--I may panic. I was determined to just sit down and calm down until they boarded my row; I said goodbye to my mother and grandmother just past the mob around the gate, found a place on the floor, pulled out a book and sat down.
They followed me to where I sat down and stood over me, hovering, looming, never more than two inches away.
I'm not going to be home for a long time, I know. I'm their girl, I know. They couldn't just walk off and leave me in that mess, I know. I know.
But the crowd had me really freaked already; I was in desperate, urgent need of some personal space, some breathing space, some alone space. By the time I got up and went to the desk to hear the rows being boarded, it wasn't the crowd that had me ready to jump out of my skin, it was my own family. I couldn't tell them this, of course. I still can't. They'll find a million and one ways to take it, all the wrong way, and I just don't feel like feeling worse about leaving than I already do.
I was so nervous by the time I got on the plane that I didn't even say anything to the evil wench who'd stolen my window seat. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise--it gave me those few precious inches of aisle space.
If the TWA terminal at Lambert was insane (and it was), O'Hare was just sadistic. I'm so utterly traumatized by O'Hare that I can't even begin to describe it. (But I'm working on it.) So I move along: Aer Lingus. If TWA sucks (and it does), then Aer Lingus sucks big nasty donkey mung.
The stewardesses hated the passengers. The passengers hated each other (a natural side-effect of coming within 100 meters of O'Hare, I think). The plane had all the charm of a ratty '70s van, with worn carpeting, semen trails, an 8-track deck that doesn't work, and a lingering odor (since '85) that no one can quite identify. (The TWA flight, at least, was an '81 station wagon with loose wood panelling, shaky windows, and dog-smell.) The lady next to me, besides apparently being determined to get drunk, couldn't understand the difference between 'my seat' and 'your seat': as in, your elbows belong where? Yes, in 'your seat'.
Aer Lingus: big nasty donkey mung.
You'd think arriving in Dublin would've been a relief. You'd be very wrong, but it's an understandable mistake--it's hard to top a day like this...
*I do not bleed.
I have a hormonal imbalance, and without the aid of birth control pills, all girl-processes stop completely. I don't bleed, I think about sex nine of every ten minutes, I radiate a vibration of low-level hostility. On the other hand, I don't get cramps, PMS, or mood-swings, so it ain't all bad.
I ran out a while back but didn't get around to wandering back up to Planned Parenthood until just recently. They gave me pills happily (Ortho-Tricyclen! I got the salad, who wants to talk tampons?), but wouldn't give me period-inducing pills without two negative pregnancy tests two weeks apart.
Yeah, that makes sense...especially seeing as they're essentially the same damned thing in different strengths.
I wouldn't be in the U.S. that long, so I passed and decided to go with an old standby: pennyroyal tea, better known as an herbal abortificaent. Hint: don't get political at me on this one.
