I’ve come a long way since my early flying days. Heights have never agreed with me, and I’ll never forget that red-eye trip coming back from California when I dozed off while reading a Stephen King novel. When I awoke, we were “rockin’ and rollin’,” and I had myself nearly talked into a panic attack before I realized the only person alarmed by the bumpy ride and the message to “fasten your seat belt” was me.
A few more flights around the country settled my twitchy nerves, though, as I discovered the joys of the window seat. I was assigned an aisle seat on the first leg of my most recent trip, but was happily entertained by the sight of an adorable baby being fed, and shortly thereafter, put to sleep on a pillow on her Mama’s lap. When she woke, she fastened her eyes on me, and after reaching out to her with some simple smiles, she rewarded me with a few big ones of her own. That more than made up for missing the scenery outside the airplane.
I ordered and scarfed down a delicious, but pricey lunch in New York before boarding my next plane. This time, I happily sat in the window seat. About halfway to St. Louis, we flew into some clouds. I’m talking 3D, towering, beckoning pillows right outside. I wanted to keep flying forever.