Don't stand too close to me or you might just win the lottery. I'm positively oozing with luck.
Yesterday I had the grand privilege of doing yard work.
Only someone who is very, very lucky has an opportunity to maintain her own lawn.
After all, someone must have time to do such a magnificent task. Most of the people in our neighborhood are not as lucky as I am. They don't have the luxury of time, so they are stuck hiring landscaping companies to do the work for them.
Poor things.
At some point in the last few weeks, the warm weather brought out the buds on the trees and the last of the fall's leaves finally dropped.
That was my signal that it was finally safe to take action.
Rain was in the forecast, but if my luck held steady, I could take care of my business before the sky fell.
The dark clouds kept the temperature from getting too hot. Luck!
A pleasant pre-storm breeze cooled me like a fan. Double luck!
The leaves were not as lucky as I; the breeze was not kind to them at all. The neat piles I'd raked scattered with each gust.
Poor things.
I tried not to let it frustrate me. There are people in parts of the world that are not as lucky as I am. They don't have lawns or trees.
Poor things.
My neighbors, too, were not as lucky as I; almost all the leaves from my lawn blew onto their beautifully manicured lawns, despite my incredibly valiant attempts to prevent that from happening.
Feeling appalled, embarrassed, and guilty, I willed the leaves to stop blowing away while frantically trying to corral them into the over-sized brown paper sack of a yard bag.
Stay put, I telegraphed.
"Stay put," I whispered.
"Stay put!" I begged aloud, but the leaves did not obey.
"STAY PUT, YOU STUPID FREAKING LEAVES!" I shouted.
By now I was certain that luck was on my side: the wind drowned out most of my yelling, and anyone interacting with nearby lawns didn't speak English anyway.
In a fit of futile guilt-propelled effort, I chased the leaves up and down the street, mentally composing apology notes to the owners of every home I passed. Luckily, there wasn't much to say.
I've heard that lottery winners lives often take a turn for the worse following their windfalls, and this does not surprise me whatsoever.
It seems that being lucky can be its own curse.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Quitting
Quitting is highly under-rated and has an undeservedly bad reputation.
Here are some quotes about quitting that some kind soul gathered and posted on the Goodreads website. I hope you find them to be as discouraging and inaccurate as I did.
“It's always too soon to quit!”
― Norman Vincent Peale
“Age wrinkles the body; quitting wrinkles the soul.”
― Douglas MacArthur
“I shed a tear when I meet somebody who always quits. Reliable people are so rare in this world.”
― Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic
“I never said it would be easy. Giving up is easy.”
― Maria V. Snyder, Inside Out
“The heartbreak of losing fades over time, however, the burden of quitting last forever.”
― Sarah van Waterschoot
And then there is the middle-of-the-road perspective, partially accurate, but not particularly soul-satisfying:
“Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever.”
― Lance Armstrong, Every Second Counts
“The time to quit is before you wish you had.”
― Kimberly K. Jones, Sand Dollar Summer
I don't know about you, but I get the impression that these inspirational gems were created by people with very little experience in quitting. It is easy for outsiders to pass judgment on quitters, but they do not know what we know.
Quitting--quitting just about anything, really--is much harder than anyone would care to admit.
Take it from me, a serial quitter. I've quit big things and I've quit small things. I've quit things that are overwhelming and things that are insignificant, and almost none of it was easy.
I quit a marriage, and it was pretty darn difficult. (If you missed it, read about it here)
I quit a career, and it tore me to shreds. (If you missed it, you can read about it here)
Almost a year ago, I quit caffeine/coffee (mostly) which was surprisingly not as hard as I expected, but that's probably because consuming it resulted in an elevated level of anxiety that was more punishment than pleasure.
Recently I quit college and a semi-developed dream for a very cool career. Boy, was that tough. (You probably saw that one, but just in case-- read about it here.)
I do not regret these things I have quit.
Not at all.
Quitting has been a most positive and liberating experience, even if it didn't feel that way at first.
BUT
Of all the things I've quit, the thing I am most proud of is quitting drinking alcohol-- a habit that had a fierce hold on me and (you probably didn't know this, because I can be quite good at concealing certain things) had me already more than halfway down the path to bonafide you-know-what-ism.
Because I don't do moderation.
Never have-- always been an "all-or-nothing" kind of gal.
(Not always proud of it, though.)
So, on Sunday, November 10, 2013, I quit. (The day's hangover really reinforced the decision.)
The sobriety-streak lasted two days.
"I don't want to be a drinker, but I don't think I can quit this," I confessed to Hannah on Wednesday morning. "I think I'm going to need professional help here. Or at the very least, a new hypnosis cd."
"I think you can do it. Forever sounds like a long time, but I bet you can quit for a week. Can you quit for a week?"
"Maybe. Probably. I guess I could try."
And I did it!
It was a long seven days, but I did it, just like Hannah knew I could.
"See?" she said.
"But I miss it!" I lamented.
"Seven days is a big record," she said. "Would you really want to have to start over from scratch?"
No way.
The drinkless days started to snowball, and at first I was acutely aware of their passing. I had every day marked on the calendar, and sometimes I would stand in front of that calendar and think twenty-two days, twenty-two days, I don't want to have wade through twenty-two more days before I can have a new record...
Sixty-four days, sixty-four days.
I don't want to lose credit and have to start all over.
As of today, it has been 140 days.
My sister is currently trying to quit smoking-- her decision was the impetus for my reflection on this subject. I know she can do it-- I am completely certain that despite the intensity of the challenge, she can take back the power from those cigarettes and leave that habit in the dust.
Ashes to ashes.
It won't be easy, of course, but quitting never is.
She'll miss it dearly for many days, the same way our hearts grieve a loss of anything or anyone close and comforting.
Then one day, she will wake up, and it won't feel quite so bad.
By Day 140, she will feel fantastic and proud and absolutely unwilling to relinquish that victory streak.
Of all the things I've read about quitting, this is the one I hope will resonate with my sister's resolve:
“Quitting is not giving up, it's choosing to focus your attention on something more important. Quitting is not losing confidence, it's realizing that there are more valuable ways you can spend your time. Quitting is not making excuses, it's learning to be more productive, efficient and effective instead. Quitting is letting go of things (or people) that are sucking the life out of you so you can do more things that will bring you strength.”
― Osayi Osar-Emokpae, Impossible Is Stupid
Here are some quotes about quitting that some kind soul gathered and posted on the Goodreads website. I hope you find them to be as discouraging and inaccurate as I did.
“It's always too soon to quit!”
― Norman Vincent Peale
“Age wrinkles the body; quitting wrinkles the soul.”
― Douglas MacArthur
“I shed a tear when I meet somebody who always quits. Reliable people are so rare in this world.”
― Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic
“I never said it would be easy. Giving up is easy.”
― Maria V. Snyder, Inside Out
“The heartbreak of losing fades over time, however, the burden of quitting last forever.”
― Sarah van Waterschoot
And then there is the middle-of-the-road perspective, partially accurate, but not particularly soul-satisfying:
“Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever.”
― Lance Armstrong, Every Second Counts
“The time to quit is before you wish you had.”
― Kimberly K. Jones, Sand Dollar Summer
I don't know about you, but I get the impression that these inspirational gems were created by people with very little experience in quitting. It is easy for outsiders to pass judgment on quitters, but they do not know what we know.
Quitting--quitting just about anything, really--is much harder than anyone would care to admit.
Take it from me, a serial quitter. I've quit big things and I've quit small things. I've quit things that are overwhelming and things that are insignificant, and almost none of it was easy.
I quit a marriage, and it was pretty darn difficult. (If you missed it, read about it here)
I quit a career, and it tore me to shreds. (If you missed it, you can read about it here)
Almost a year ago, I quit caffeine/coffee (mostly) which was surprisingly not as hard as I expected, but that's probably because consuming it resulted in an elevated level of anxiety that was more punishment than pleasure.
Recently I quit college and a semi-developed dream for a very cool career. Boy, was that tough. (You probably saw that one, but just in case-- read about it here.)
I do not regret these things I have quit.
Not at all.
Quitting has been a most positive and liberating experience, even if it didn't feel that way at first.
BUT
Of all the things I've quit, the thing I am most proud of is quitting drinking alcohol-- a habit that had a fierce hold on me and (you probably didn't know this, because I can be quite good at concealing certain things) had me already more than halfway down the path to bonafide you-know-what-ism.
Because I don't do moderation.
Never have-- always been an "all-or-nothing" kind of gal.
(Not always proud of it, though.)
So, on Sunday, November 10, 2013, I quit. (The day's hangover really reinforced the decision.)
The sobriety-streak lasted two days.
"I don't want to be a drinker, but I don't think I can quit this," I confessed to Hannah on Wednesday morning. "I think I'm going to need professional help here. Or at the very least, a new hypnosis cd."
"I think you can do it. Forever sounds like a long time, but I bet you can quit for a week. Can you quit for a week?"
"Maybe. Probably. I guess I could try."
And I did it!
It was a long seven days, but I did it, just like Hannah knew I could.
"See?" she said.
"But I miss it!" I lamented.
"Seven days is a big record," she said. "Would you really want to have to start over from scratch?"
No way.
The drinkless days started to snowball, and at first I was acutely aware of their passing. I had every day marked on the calendar, and sometimes I would stand in front of that calendar and think twenty-two days, twenty-two days, I don't want to have wade through twenty-two more days before I can have a new record...
Sixty-four days, sixty-four days.
I don't want to lose credit and have to start all over.
As of today, it has been 140 days.
My sister is currently trying to quit smoking-- her decision was the impetus for my reflection on this subject. I know she can do it-- I am completely certain that despite the intensity of the challenge, she can take back the power from those cigarettes and leave that habit in the dust.
Ashes to ashes.
It won't be easy, of course, but quitting never is.
She'll miss it dearly for many days, the same way our hearts grieve a loss of anything or anyone close and comforting.
Then one day, she will wake up, and it won't feel quite so bad.
By Day 140, she will feel fantastic and proud and absolutely unwilling to relinquish that victory streak.
Of all the things I've read about quitting, this is the one I hope will resonate with my sister's resolve:
“Quitting is not giving up, it's choosing to focus your attention on something more important. Quitting is not losing confidence, it's realizing that there are more valuable ways you can spend your time. Quitting is not making excuses, it's learning to be more productive, efficient and effective instead. Quitting is letting go of things (or people) that are sucking the life out of you so you can do more things that will bring you strength.”
― Osayi Osar-Emokpae, Impossible Is Stupid
Monday, March 24, 2014
Winner-Winner-Chicken-Dinner
Award-winning wings.
Right to your door.
I haven't had Pizza Hut in years, but I have unmistakable memories of the experience, and it was far from pleasant.
Here's what I would like to know:
What kind of award did these wings win?
And exactly who gave this award?
My guess is that it is some sort of smokers' association.
I've heard their taste-buds are less functional.
It's the only reasonable explanation.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Conspiracy Theory 101
UPS and Murphy's Law are in cahoots, and I have proof.
I was excited about the impending arrival of the headlights for Russ's truck, but I knew there was nothing I could do but gaze at them until he (and the truck) returned home from work. I had accepted this fact prior to the delivery, and I prayed the torture time would be minimal.
What time were the parts delivered?
8 a.m.
The big brown box sat mocking me for hours and hours.
On the other hand, the Hoover SteamVac Carpet Washer with Clean Surge, F5914900 was listed as "out for delivery" as of 7:05 this morning. If my anticipation of the headlights was enthusiastic, the eagerness I've felt toward the delivery of this cleaning machine borders on excruciating.
The calendar was cleared for today so that I could spend maximum time indulging in my favorite vice. Dreams of this day pulled me through the challenges of the week-- Tuesday's root canal, Wednesday's math test, Thursday's Thursday-ness.
I've fantasized about all the rug regions I'll clean, and I've carefully selected my first area-- the foyer rug--as the test zone. Scissors wait patiently-- far more patiently than I--on the window sill so that the box can be opened immediately.
I've even taken the "before" pictures.
Here it is, past noon, and still no ding of the doorbell.
The day is half-over, and I don't even hear a faint rumble of the UPS truck.
Adding to my misery, it seems that Murphy has partnered up with big business, too.
Amazon has reduced the price from Monday's $191.97. Today (Friday) it is listed as $138.97 with free Prime two-day shipping.
This is identical to the price I found (and paid) at the Home Depot website on Monday after a significant amount of time scouring the internet for the very best price.
Heaping on insult to injury, there was an additional $11 fee during checkout at Home Depot-- tax? Shipping? I can't remember.
But Amazon, oh, Amazon, where we have a gift card just waiting to be used-- Amazon was offering an additional $10 off coupon today.
I rest my case.
Why does Murphy always side against us?
I was excited about the impending arrival of the headlights for Russ's truck, but I knew there was nothing I could do but gaze at them until he (and the truck) returned home from work. I had accepted this fact prior to the delivery, and I prayed the torture time would be minimal.
What time were the parts delivered?
8 a.m.
The big brown box sat mocking me for hours and hours.
On the other hand, the Hoover SteamVac Carpet Washer with Clean Surge, F5914900 was listed as "out for delivery" as of 7:05 this morning. If my anticipation of the headlights was enthusiastic, the eagerness I've felt toward the delivery of this cleaning machine borders on excruciating.
The calendar was cleared for today so that I could spend maximum time indulging in my favorite vice. Dreams of this day pulled me through the challenges of the week-- Tuesday's root canal, Wednesday's math test, Thursday's Thursday-ness.
I've fantasized about all the rug regions I'll clean, and I've carefully selected my first area-- the foyer rug--as the test zone. Scissors wait patiently-- far more patiently than I--on the window sill so that the box can be opened immediately.
I've even taken the "before" pictures.
 |
| Foyer rug-- before |
Here it is, past noon, and still no ding of the doorbell.
The day is half-over, and I don't even hear a faint rumble of the UPS truck.
Adding to my misery, it seems that Murphy has partnered up with big business, too.
Amazon has reduced the price from Monday's $191.97. Today (Friday) it is listed as $138.97 with free Prime two-day shipping.
This is identical to the price I found (and paid) at the Home Depot website on Monday after a significant amount of time scouring the internet for the very best price.
Heaping on insult to injury, there was an additional $11 fee during checkout at Home Depot-- tax? Shipping? I can't remember.
But Amazon, oh, Amazon, where we have a gift card just waiting to be used-- Amazon was offering an additional $10 off coupon today.
I rest my case.
Why does Murphy always side against us?
Friday, March 14, 2014
Mayday
I spent over 8 hours outside today for the 8th day this week. Every time a plane passed overhead, I thought, "Please don't disappear. Please go safely to your destination."
The tiny thought came naturally and quickly established itself as a habitual (albeit conditional) response, much like saying "gesundheit" when someone sneezes, or "padiddle" when passing a car with only one functioning headlight.
There were a lot of planes passing overhead, so most of the day was spent blessing their travels. To be honest, it was hard to get anything else done.
I couldn't just stop.
I'm not crazy, okay? I realize I wasn't single-handedly protecting their destinies.
Still, what if something happened to one that I could have blessed but didn't?
Despite accomplishing less today than any previous day-- ever-- I am absolutely exhausted.
Could one of you take tomorrow's shift?
Maybe we can take turns, at least until they find the missing Malaysian flight.
The tiny thought came naturally and quickly established itself as a habitual (albeit conditional) response, much like saying "gesundheit" when someone sneezes, or "padiddle" when passing a car with only one functioning headlight.
There were a lot of planes passing overhead, so most of the day was spent blessing their travels. To be honest, it was hard to get anything else done.
I couldn't just stop.
I'm not crazy, okay? I realize I wasn't single-handedly protecting their destinies.
Still, what if something happened to one that I could have blessed but didn't?
Despite accomplishing less today than any previous day-- ever-- I am absolutely exhausted.
Could one of you take tomorrow's shift?
Maybe we can take turns, at least until they find the missing Malaysian flight.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Tennis Pro
 |
| If Team Sanders-Robinson had an official t-shirt, this would definitely be the logo. |
Maybe you've heard me joke that our kids don't do sports; they do homework and lots of it. It's true-- there's not time for both (or not time to do both well.)
So, homework is our sport.
Alas, there was a brief and shining moment when we tried to enroll the kids in tennis-- a sport which, if enjoyed, could become a lifelong hobby.
A classy sport.
A dignified sport.
At one point or another, all three kids have been enrolled in lessons.
Is there a tennis pro among them?
Swiss Miss
Hannah had the discipline but not the motivation. She had a discerning eye when it came to evaluating incoming serves, and she could quickly and accurately detect whether the ball would be in or out.
She never took a swing at a serve that was destined to be out. In fact, she often stood by patiently watching as serves landed in the boundaries, too.
Hannah was the picture of neutrality.
She was the Switzerland of the tennis world.
She could and would hit the ball, as long as it came right to her. She just didn't want to have to run (or even walk) to swing at it.
A Menace to Tennis
Caleb had all the enthusiasm in the world and absolutely zero coordination. He'd swing wildly every time the ball came to his side of the net without any regard for where he should direct the ball in its return.
His technique was of a variety that made mandatory helmets for the players and onlookers seem like not just a good idea but an absolute necessity for safety.
It's safe to say that more of his tennis balls soared up and over the fence than those that actually landed in the court-boundaries or even within the fenced area.
One could make a case that he sent more tennis balls up and over the 15-foot fences than anyone else at the facility. Ever.
Keep Your Eyes on the Ball
And then there was Mia.
From age two, Mia waited desperately to be old enough to take tennis lessons. In our city recreation program, the most cost-effective option required that participants be at least five years old.
She'd seen the older two kids take lessons, and she'd played a little here and there with the rest of our family at the local courts. We'd purchased her an itty-bitty Dora racket. ("Tennis rocket," she'd called it as a toddler.)
Even during casual family play, it was obvious that Mia had the most natural athletic ability and coordination. She could hit the ball with a precision and control that made it seem easier than breathing.
Mia was going to be a force to be reckoned with.
Except for one small thing: focus.
For this reason, her tennis lesson experience was possibly the most disastrous-- or at least the most inefficient.
During instructional time, she would try to balance her racket vertically on the ground. Sometimes, even worse, she'd position it horizontally on her head.
During demonstrations, her eyes were on the skies. ("But Mom," she'd say later, "I'm pretty sure I saw a bird's nest in the tree near the fence. I was trying to see what kind of bird it belonged to." Or sometimes, "But Mom, wasn't it unusual that there were six planes that passed over us on Thursday when there were only three last Tuesday?" )
During wait-your-turn-patiently, she invented some sort of game to amuse herself and the other participants, which meant that nobody was in the ready position when it was eventually time for each future star's respective turn.
From the sidelines, I called out reminders to her--probably to everyone's great relief and/or annoyance. I tried to gesture. I tried the evil eye. I did everything I could to influence her behavior in the moments leading up to her turn to serve and return serves.
Finally, it would be her time to shine.
Finally, the coach and onlookers (who'd probably been rolling their eyes in exasperation) would get to see her at her finest.
Such skill!
Such strength!
Oh, how they would marvel when they saw.
How could she be so young and so coordinated?
They never got to see her in action, though.
Every time it was her turn--literally EVERY time-- something else seemed to be catching her attention.
"Keep your eyes on the ball!" I called out again and again, but to no avail.
"What on earth happened out there?" I later asked her.
"Sorry about that. See, the sun was just right, and I could see the shadow of the ball, and then I could see the shadow of the racket, and the shadow of myself, and it was all so cool, seeing that whole little shadow world. I guess I just forgot to hit the ball..."
Better Luck Next Time
During a recent Pre-Spring Cleaning session, I discovered all three kids' rackets in the garage, long outgrown. As I added them to the box of items to consign, I wondered if our sport-ship had truly sailed.
Maybe it's time to try golf?
Update:
Look what came home following "College Week" at the elementary school.
"Tennis?" I asked, "I thought you wanted to be a veterinarian!"
"I did, but my teacher said if we went to college, we could do anything we wanted, and tennis is what I want to do."
Good luck, kid.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Break Your Spirit Air
Combing through travel fares from Dallas to Boston last night, I noticed a non-stop flight for $168 round-trip amid the other quotes of $300-$500 per ticket. Were my eyes deceiving me? No. Did I rejoice? No. Did I even pause to investigate? Heck no.
I knew that flight, and I wanted no part of it.
I don't think I would take that Break-Your-Spirit Air red-eye flight again if they paid me $168.
A few years ago, after my sweet Nonnie passed away, Russ and I needed to get to Boston in a hurry. If you've never had the occasion to purchase tickets within twenty-four hours of your journey, believe the hype: the ticket prices are sky-high.
There were several $700 per person flights with three or more stops/layovers along the way. This meant that we could feasibly pay $1400 for plane tickets, leave within two hours of booking the flight, and not even arrive in time for the funeral.
And then, like a little travel miracle, up popped a non-stop flight for $168 per person. The flight would depart at 1:15 a.m. and arrive at 5:48 a.m., which would give us a little less than four hours between arrival and funeral.
We would sleep on the plane.
It would be perfect.
The first sign that things were not perfect involved some fine print about additional charges.
There were charges to select a seat in order to guarantee traveling next to your loved one. Worth it, we agreed.
There were charges involving bags, and not just the checked-in kind, either. Charges--substantial ones--were associated with carry-on bags, too. Not worth it, we decided.
We would wear our funeral attire (and as many layers as we could muster) on the plane and figure out the details later. Not the coziest plan for catching some shut-eye, but our comfort was not a priority. Besides, we'd only be there for 24 hours.
There were even charges to have the tickets printed at the airport. We've always printed our boarding passes at home cheerfully, but the idea of being railroaded into it rubbed against our optimism like sandpaper.
Still, we proceeded with our preparations, dutifully doing the backwards-airport calculations to determine when to leave the house in order to arrive at the airport at the appropriate time.
As Russ drove, I daydreamed about the impending middle-of-the-night journey and the other souls who'd accompany us on this flight. Surely the plane's cabin would be dimly lit and cozy, probably with a few sleepy business travelers heading to morning meetings. Poor things, I thought, grateful that this lifestyle was not part of our routine.
In sharp contrast to my peaceful vision, the airport was a zoo.
Actually, that is not entirely accurate. For the most part, the airport was silent and vacant. It was only our gate that was a zoo.
It seemed that the entire population of a small town was there, and every demographic was represented. Especially the child-and-baby population, and by the way they were running around and yelling, they had no intention of sleeping any time soon.
At a glance, I assessed that there were more people in the lobby area than could possibly occupy the plane. This mystery cleared up when we boarded, and I saw that there were more seats on this plane than on any similar craft I'd ever traveled on previously.
Here is how you know I am not exaggerating. We were seated in the last possible row-- you know, the "backs against the restroom" row. In this case, 26D and 26E.
On United Airways, the Airbus A319 has 8 first class seats, 40 "economy plus" seats, and 72 "economy seats" for a total of 120 seats across 21 rows.
On US Airways, the Airbus A319 has 12 first class seats and 112 coach seats for a total of 124 seats across 22 rows.
On Spirit Air, the Airbus A319 had 10 "big front standard" seats and 135 "standard" seats for a whopping grand total of 145 seats across 25 rows. (There was no row 1. I do not know why.)
And every seat was filled.
We are not particularly tall people; still, our knees rubbed against the row of seats in front of us.
You might think that with so many seats on this plane, reclining seats would not be a possibility. You would be wrong. The seats did recline-- all, of course, but ours. I found this out the hard way when the woman in front of me reclined without warning and her seat smacked into my face.
POW.
Right in the kisser.
Really.
This new obstacle in my lap greatly limited my range of positions for the next four hours as I could not physically face directly forward. Nor could I look to the left or right without actually scraping my face on her seat-back. Unless, of course, I tucked my chin or half-stood to get up and over her seat back.
As bad as I thought I had it, Russ had--by far--the very worst seat on the plane, although he never once complained.
The person in front of him--more courteous? more clueless?--did not recline her seat, so you'd think that Russ would have had more face-space.
Wrong again.
In fact, Russ's situation might have actually improved had the passenger in front of him reclined, because his face-space became a vacuum for derrieres.
I'm not kidding.
Because we were seated in front of the restroom, and because the aisles were so narrow, the steady stream of restroom-users needed to do an intimate dance around one another in order to reach their respective destinations.
This was usually achieved through a method involving significant leaning of bellies and rumps, always, ALWAYS into Russ's face.
I was somewhat surprised that so many people were even using the restroom given that beverage service was infrequent and NOT complimentary. Seriously. Not even water.
Around hour three, we started to wax nostalgic about the Mexicana disaster with a fondness I never thought I'd feel.
We arrived in Boston on time, stiff, parched, grumpy, and with our funeral attire not nearly as wrinkled as I'd anticipated, thanks to our inability to move for the duration of the flight.
Our spirits, however, were utterly broken.
Off the plane but before even spilling out of the jetway and into the airport proper, we made a solemn pact to never fly Spirit again.
We've become fans of Jet Blue, and that's probably the airline with which I'll book our upcoming tickets. It doesn't matter that the tickets appear to be double the price. By the time you factor in all the complimentary Jet Blue things that Spirit charges for, it's a wash financially, leaving only two factors at play:
comfort and timing.
These two things that I so greatly underestimated have become of paramount importance for our travel plans-- they are utterly essential to keeping our spirits intact.
I hereby swear that everything you've just read is the complete truth as I remember it. Skeptical about the validity? Here are two websites to substantiate my claims:
5 Outrageous Spirit Airlines Fees (published May 8, 2013) http://www.foxnews.com/travel/2013/05/08/5-outrageous-spirit-airlines-fees/
A list of "Optional Services" from the company's own website (current as of March 5, 2014)
http://www.spirit.com/OptionalServices
I knew that flight, and I wanted no part of it.
I don't think I would take that Break-Your-Spirit Air red-eye flight again if they paid me $168.
***
A few years ago, after my sweet Nonnie passed away, Russ and I needed to get to Boston in a hurry. If you've never had the occasion to purchase tickets within twenty-four hours of your journey, believe the hype: the ticket prices are sky-high.
There were several $700 per person flights with three or more stops/layovers along the way. This meant that we could feasibly pay $1400 for plane tickets, leave within two hours of booking the flight, and not even arrive in time for the funeral.
And then, like a little travel miracle, up popped a non-stop flight for $168 per person. The flight would depart at 1:15 a.m. and arrive at 5:48 a.m., which would give us a little less than four hours between arrival and funeral.
We would sleep on the plane.
It would be perfect.
The first sign that things were not perfect involved some fine print about additional charges.
There were charges to select a seat in order to guarantee traveling next to your loved one. Worth it, we agreed.
There were charges involving bags, and not just the checked-in kind, either. Charges--substantial ones--were associated with carry-on bags, too. Not worth it, we decided.
We would wear our funeral attire (and as many layers as we could muster) on the plane and figure out the details later. Not the coziest plan for catching some shut-eye, but our comfort was not a priority. Besides, we'd only be there for 24 hours.
There were even charges to have the tickets printed at the airport. We've always printed our boarding passes at home cheerfully, but the idea of being railroaded into it rubbed against our optimism like sandpaper.
Still, we proceeded with our preparations, dutifully doing the backwards-airport calculations to determine when to leave the house in order to arrive at the airport at the appropriate time.
***
As Russ drove, I daydreamed about the impending middle-of-the-night journey and the other souls who'd accompany us on this flight. Surely the plane's cabin would be dimly lit and cozy, probably with a few sleepy business travelers heading to morning meetings. Poor things, I thought, grateful that this lifestyle was not part of our routine.
In sharp contrast to my peaceful vision, the airport was a zoo.
Actually, that is not entirely accurate. For the most part, the airport was silent and vacant. It was only our gate that was a zoo.
It seemed that the entire population of a small town was there, and every demographic was represented. Especially the child-and-baby population, and by the way they were running around and yelling, they had no intention of sleeping any time soon.
At a glance, I assessed that there were more people in the lobby area than could possibly occupy the plane. This mystery cleared up when we boarded, and I saw that there were more seats on this plane than on any similar craft I'd ever traveled on previously.
Here is how you know I am not exaggerating. We were seated in the last possible row-- you know, the "backs against the restroom" row. In this case, 26D and 26E.
On United Airways, the Airbus A319 has 8 first class seats, 40 "economy plus" seats, and 72 "economy seats" for a total of 120 seats across 21 rows.
On US Airways, the Airbus A319 has 12 first class seats and 112 coach seats for a total of 124 seats across 22 rows.
On Spirit Air, the Airbus A319 had 10 "big front standard" seats and 135 "standard" seats for a whopping grand total of 145 seats across 25 rows. (There was no row 1. I do not know why.)
And every seat was filled.
We are not particularly tall people; still, our knees rubbed against the row of seats in front of us.
You might think that with so many seats on this plane, reclining seats would not be a possibility. You would be wrong. The seats did recline-- all, of course, but ours. I found this out the hard way when the woman in front of me reclined without warning and her seat smacked into my face.
POW.
Right in the kisser.
Really.
This new obstacle in my lap greatly limited my range of positions for the next four hours as I could not physically face directly forward. Nor could I look to the left or right without actually scraping my face on her seat-back. Unless, of course, I tucked my chin or half-stood to get up and over her seat back.
As bad as I thought I had it, Russ had--by far--the very worst seat on the plane, although he never once complained.
The person in front of him--more courteous? more clueless?--did not recline her seat, so you'd think that Russ would have had more face-space.
Wrong again.
In fact, Russ's situation might have actually improved had the passenger in front of him reclined, because his face-space became a vacuum for derrieres.
I'm not kidding.
Because we were seated in front of the restroom, and because the aisles were so narrow, the steady stream of restroom-users needed to do an intimate dance around one another in order to reach their respective destinations.
This was usually achieved through a method involving significant leaning of bellies and rumps, always, ALWAYS into Russ's face.
I was somewhat surprised that so many people were even using the restroom given that beverage service was infrequent and NOT complimentary. Seriously. Not even water.
Around hour three, we started to wax nostalgic about the Mexicana disaster with a fondness I never thought I'd feel.
We arrived in Boston on time, stiff, parched, grumpy, and with our funeral attire not nearly as wrinkled as I'd anticipated, thanks to our inability to move for the duration of the flight.
Our spirits, however, were utterly broken.
Off the plane but before even spilling out of the jetway and into the airport proper, we made a solemn pact to never fly Spirit again.
***
We've become fans of Jet Blue, and that's probably the airline with which I'll book our upcoming tickets. It doesn't matter that the tickets appear to be double the price. By the time you factor in all the complimentary Jet Blue things that Spirit charges for, it's a wash financially, leaving only two factors at play:
comfort and timing.
These two things that I so greatly underestimated have become of paramount importance for our travel plans-- they are utterly essential to keeping our spirits intact.
I hereby swear that everything you've just read is the complete truth as I remember it. Skeptical about the validity? Here are two websites to substantiate my claims:
5 Outrageous Spirit Airlines Fees (published May 8, 2013) http://www.foxnews.com/travel/2013/05/08/5-outrageous-spirit-airlines-fees/
A list of "Optional Services" from the company's own website (current as of March 5, 2014)
http://www.spirit.com/OptionalServices
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