Sweatsuit

A drunk woman sat in front of me on the plane last night.

I’m sorry.  I can’t be kind and just ignore.  This needs to be documented.

It’s important to set the scene.  We had just arrived in Seattle from London and this was the last stretch of a long day of flying.  The plane was small, two seats on each side, little scooch sideways aisle.  We board, I sit next to Maggie and Michael is on the aisle across.  In front of Michael sit two woman, professional golfers.  In front of me sits a young guy, I learn shortly into the flight that he knows the other two women and he too is a golfer.

Enter drunk lady.  Black Juicy-type sweatsuit, huge rock, dress flats and a very large purse.  In the fifteen minutes it took from boarding to the plane reaching for the sky, here’s what I learned.  Her shoes are Ferragamo, very expensive.  She lives in Scottsdale, Arizona and her husband has a Mercedes, but she has a Lexus because she likes things understated.  She has three children, her husband is a “big deal” he pops up on Google, she says.  Her parents were born in Norway and she hopes someday her daughter will land a spot on American Idol.  She’s nine.  The guy sitting next to her, we’ll call him Golf, nods politely as she searches her enormous bag for her phone.

Plane takes off and lights are dimmed.  Michael falls asleep, Maggie falls asleep.  I wrap my cozy travel sweater around me and assume the nap on a plane position.

I was there for you in your darkest times, I was there for you in your darkest night, but I wonder wheeeere were you…a young girl’s voice begins screeching Maroon 5.  My eyes open.

Michael and Maggie are still out, so I decide I’m dreaming, but the girl keeps going.  I look between the seats and Scottsdale is showing Golf videos of her nine year old wrapped in a towel (pool party perhaps) singing.  There are multiple videos, by the time she moves on to a startling version of All About that Bass, a young man sitting behind Michael stands up and in his very Seattle cool way says, “Hey, guys could you put headphones on because the whole plane can hear that.”

I tell him he’s my hero as he makes his way back to his seat and his lovely girlfriend.  Scottsdale is huffy now and proceeds to look back at the guy and his girlfriend and then whips around to tell Golf that his girlfriend is probably fat.  “Fat people always have an issue with me because I’m super hot for 42 and they just can’t take it.  I’m rich too, so there it is.  My daughter is so talented.  They are really missing out.  Don’t you think they are missing out?  You’re loss!  Their loss, right?”

At this point I am looking around wondering what alternate universe I have slipped into.

I did not get more than 5 minutes of peace.  The flight proceeded like this.

Scottsdale starts flirting with Golf, who I learn is 23.  She tells him all about her house and her daughters and that her husband is great, but she’s lonely (that’s original).

Scottsdale then calls for the flight attendant to ask about drinks, the fight attendant politely explains that they are working their way up the aisle.  When the flight attendant leaves, Scottsdale bitches about the poor service, the attendant’s big ass and how she should have booked first class.  This happens two more times and finally Scottsdale orders two glasses of “your best Chardonnay.”

Keep it classy.  I laugh.

Golf orders a double rum and Coke.  He’s going to need it.  Scottsdale now engages the two golf women across the aisle and ask them if they play tennis.  These two women look at her like she’s…well, drunk.  They are nice, but dismissive and Scottsdale decides they are bitches.  She turns back to Golf to ramble about her illustrious tennis career at a club, but she can’t remember the name.  She eats one pretzel, “I limit myself to one.”

Things get quiet and my tired eyes finally shut.  Five minutes later there is cooing and whispering and I open my eyes to Golf inhaling Scottsdale’s face.  She’s flinging her hair around and these two are going to town.  I check to make sure Maggie is still asleep.  I nudge Michael who opens his eyes briefly and couldn’t care less.  Scottsdale then leans over the armrest, eyes closed and I have no idea where Golf went.

I don’t mean to be a prude, but wasn’t she just showing bad videos of her kid?  What the hell is happening?  The flight attendants are nowhere to be found, scared off.  I close my eyes tightly and will it to all be over.

We land.  Scottsdale wipes her mouth, reapplies her gloss, and says, “Oooh, well that was fun.”  Golf smiles and says he’ll need to stay seated for a while until, “his boy calms down”  Yuck!

Scottsdale weaves up the gateway and into the arms of her waiting husband, who can clearly see that he will have his hands full, and their three daughters.

Longest flight of my life.  Running through my mind, in no particular order…

Is this something she does all the time?  Why is she wearing dress flats with a sweatsuit?  Does she drink because she’s afraid to fly and this one just got out of hand?  She gave Golf her name, address and phone number.  Will he be calling her?  Golf was an Asian man and so was her husband.  Was she thinking it was a younger version of her guy and this will be a big Whoopsie in the morning?  Yet another reason to steer clear of Scottsdale, Arizona.

My thoughts from the laundry room.  Lights Off.

19 thoughts on “Sweatsuit

  1. Best alternate ending to this story: you tap her husband on the shoulder and hold up your phone which is now playing the five minute video you took of her trying to remove Golf’s tonsils. Crying and violence ensues as you walk away. You take a long hot shower at home and sleep the sleep of the vindicated.

      1. I highly recommend the imagination for when you feel the hot burn of injustice and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it. You gotta channel the toxic rage or they’ve burned you twice.

        My landlady has died countless deaths since 2008, all slow, painful, and public, all thanks to me. Dozens of screaming grocery store children have met their end by dart guns full of poison, their mothers have been cursed with pituitary disorders that have caused them to balloon to 500 pounds in one year. Citibank is a wasteland of zombie crack whores, the Republican party barely stands.

        And mean Sarah Jons from sixth grade? That bitch just can’t seem to shake simultaneous hair loss and gonorrhea.

  2. Wow–that was some flight, Tracy. I never get exciting stuff like that on my flights! Hope you got a decent night’s rest when you finally arrived home—bet that was one of the longest flights ever!

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