first published July, 2015

Air travel is a miracle. Truly. That massive metal tube leaves the earth and touches down in another city–or another continent, for crying out loud. It’s amazing! And for the lucky few who experience the miracle in the First Class cabin, it’s magic. Wide seats. Complimentary beverages. Forks. For the rest of us, it’s an exhausting pain in the ass. I’ve never understood why; the math doesn’t seem to make sense. Most of the time we’re just sitting on our butts, but even a short day of air travel wipes a person out.

Science can (and will) point out the physiological effects of altitude and pressurized air and time changes and, yes, there’s probably something to all that. Add the early-and-sleepless factor and there’s something to all that, too. We’re bound to be tired. But wasted? How does that happen?

Well wonder no more, friends, for I have solved the riddle.

The reason we are spent, trashed, depleted, and worthless after a day in the not-so-friendly skies is that traveling by air (at least for the mortal majority riding coach) presents an unrelenting procession of consequential decisions. It’s a marathon of risk assessment. And it requires constant vigilance.

From booking to baggage claim, every point in the travel process is fraught. A hundred good decisions won’t necessarily guarantee a good experience in the air, but one bad call can leave the day in ruins. Evaluate, decide; evaluate, decide; evaluate, decide—it’s a minefield! It’s as stressful as a 12-hour stretch at the Vegas tables, though it’s not money you’re gambling, but your very sanity. And that’s exhausting.

Very few of us are new at this and one would think that experience would help, fore-warned being fore-armed and all. In fact, the reverse is true: all that prior knowledge means more variables to weigh and consider; experience becomes a burden. It’s simpler for the beginner who floats blithely through the process, awash in wonder, awe, and disbelief, unaware of the dangers waiting at every decision point. Ignorance is bliss.

Nothing else is. Consider, if you will:

Booking. The first step, and the hardest to undo, you search valiantly for times, dates, and fares that work with your schedule and budget. Booking weeks in advance offers better prices but locks in your plans (can you say “non-refundable”?) One change in your schedule and you’re out the bucks; wait too long and you overpay. Then there’s the question of travel times. Which, exactly, are the “peak hours”? How much time between flights? Will there be weather? Is there any chance you’ll actually make that connection? It’s all just too much. Overcome your paralysis, click “book” and get on with your life. You’re probably screwed anyway. 

Seat Selection. Good news: you get to choose your seat! Bad news: you have no one else to blame for your lousy seat! Should you grit your teeth and pay premium bucks for an earlier boarding group, or save money, sit in the back, and risk not getting off the plane in time to make that connection? And what if you don’t find a place for your carry-on? You like the window because you can lean against the wall and sleep but what if you need to pee? The illusion of leg room in the aisle seat is nice though you’re bound to be hit with something—shoulder bag, elbow, toddler. Still worth it? What’s that? A middle seat?!  Shoot me now.

Food. Nobody feeds you anymore. (Unless you’re in first class. I never get to fly first class. I hate you, first class.) Well, if you’re going across the continent non-stop, yes. And if you’re going across the ocean (also non-stop, you hope), that’s about all they do. But for the regular 2- to 3-hour jaunts, no. Nothing. So when do you eat? Do you pack your own (will it survive security?) or rely on the dubious concourse food court? Stuff your mouth and stash some other stuff into your carry-on? Then there’s the question of what to eat. How’s your stomach feeling today? Will that burrito survive turbulence? How much water should you drink? Will you be wedged in at the window? Should you overeat while waiting for your first plane just in case it needs to hold you through the second flight? What’s better—becoming Mr Hyde the Hangry or nursing a cramping colon for 3 hours?

Sleep. Nod off and dream away a lonely hour? Do you care who sees your open-mouth, bobble-head nap? What if you drool? What if you miss the beverage cart? You surely need some shut-eye, but planning on using that second leg to catch up on your R.E.M. almost guarantees a screaming child 2 rows away. Will sleeping 20 minutes now cost you 3 hours later?

Farting. Do you dare?

Et cetera. Ad astrum. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseum. Honestly, does it have to be this complicated? This isn’t rocket science, it’s just Boise to Cleveland.

Why work so hard? Maybe it’s best just to let it go. Surrender, Dorothy. Try a new tack:

• Hire a travel agent. Fire them when things go badly.
• Check your bag. Treat yourself to a new wardrobe when the bag fails to materialize on the carousel.
• Eat and drink whatever possible whenever possible. Wear adult diapers.
• Take Benadryl. Lots of Benadryl. Or say “no” to drugs, and “yes” to sensory deprivation, and stash earplugs, nose plugs, and a black-out eye mask into your carry-on.
• Fart with impunity. No worries: you will never see these people again. And besides, you have your nose plugs.

What the hell. The day is probably shot anyway. Might as well have a little fun. Any landing you can walk away from is a good one, right? And remember, it could always be worse: you could be a flight attendant.

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