A friend texted me to tell me she had enjoyed my blog post that day.

“Does this stuff really happen to you?” she asked me, laughing.

“Unfortunately,” I said. “If you read it, it happened.”

“But HOW?” she said.

Dunno. Maybe I’m more keyed into the human condition than the average person. Maybe my life force draws in the nonsensical. Maybe I see the ridiculousness of life easier than most. But it’s more likely that this stuff happens to everyone, I just happen to have a blog where I can write about it.

“I doubt it,” she answered. “Crazy shit like that doesn’t happen to me.”

Point taken.

So as I prepare to fly out this weekend, I feel it’s an opportune time to talk about my preference for first-class travel. Only a handful of people know this story, and now all of you will. The implication is not that first-class is so “elite” that crazy shit doesn’t happen there. No. It’s that crazy shit is less likely to happen there, and if it does, the big seats will hopefully keep it further away from me.

To begin with, my first-class trip to Iceland spoiled me. It sure did. I was in a fragile, confused, and anxious state, I was physically and emotionally exhausted, and there I was, in this luxurious spacious seat, being handed fuzzy slippers, warm cookies, champagne and soft blankets. I never felt more pampered in my life outside of a high-end spa.

I was hooked.

So if the price for a first-class ticket is reasonable, I buy it. Not for the food. Not for the drinks. Not for the status. For the comfort. Flying can be intolerable for an introvert, the close quarters of airplane seats just too close for comfort. First-class provides that little bit of extra room that affords us the privacy we need.

So the story.

Last spring, in 2019, I was planning a trip to Boston. I was taking my son and his girlfriend to look at some schools, and since I had so many frequent flier miles, we decided to fly. The flight from Philadelphia to Boston is only ninety minutes, and since my miles did not cover first-class anyway, I booked three coach tickets.

By this time, I hadn’t flown coach in two years, and it was immediately an assault on my senses and nerves. “Only ninety minutes,” I told myself, and I settled into my seat, turned on my music, and tried to relax. My son and his girlfriend had seats in the row behind me, and they quickly snuggled into their phones and each other. The seat next to me near the window was still empty, and since it was a full flight, I wondered what kind of specimen would inevitably end up next to me.

Shame on you, Mary, I thought to myself.

Finally, she arrived, late, a polyester-red panicked heavy-breathing flurry in the aisle. She was making quite a scene, so I glanced at her in my peripheral vision. Big. Sweaty. Ill-fitting business clothes. Lots and lots of bags filled with papers (my guess was she was an elementary school teacher transporting reports on the water cycle across state lines). Clutching a 72-ounce Dunkin Donuts coffee confection. You know, the cup of “coffee” that poses as coffee but is really liquefied donuts.

She turned to the flight attendant.

“Would you mind holding my coffee while I settle in?”

“Of course,” the attendant said. “Take your time.”

(Hah. Boy, did she. Take her time, that is. That flight attendant had to stand in that aisle holding that woman’s coffee for five minutes).

She excused herself to me and apologized for being late. I smiled, and politely stood to give her access to her seat. She had a lot of girth and bags and lifeforce to cram into a small space, and I felt bad for the effort it took for her to jam herself in. As I waited patiently in the aisle, I tried to catch the eye of my son and his girlfriend. When I looked, I saw that they were already staring at me and smiling, amused at the spectacle and my barely-hidden distress (is there any better feeling in the world than looking at people you love and seeing that they are already looking at you, because they know exactly what you are thinking and feeling?).

I smiled back at them and nodded.

Yes, I said to them subliminally. She is mine. All mine. They shook their heads and began to laugh silently as if to say, “Sucks for you,” and went back to their phones and their worlds.

Once she was finally settled, she thanked me, and we waited for takeoff. Our departure time came and went, and through the Mozart playing softly in my ear buds, I heard an announcement that our takeoff was slightly delayed due to the queue on the runway.

Great, I thought, and I tried to think of pleasant things. Grey Goose martinis. Puppies. Seared scallops. Boat rides. Boston Common. I smiled and began to drift into that zone where things are soft and fluid. Not sleep. Just contentment. It was then that I was jarred out of my nirvana by the frenetic energy of my seatmate.

It wasn’t just frenetic. Or nervous. It was something I had never seen before. She re-arranged her bags. She played with her phone. She fixed her hair. She dug in her purse. She removed her coffee lid and snapped it back on. She touched the window. Pulled down the screen. Pulled it back up. I was able to watch this entertainment not just in my peripheral vision, but by looking straight at her, because her body was turned completely to the outside. She was turned full-on towards the window, her back to me.

Her bizarre behavior continued. She wouldn’t stop. I wondered if she had done crack before she boarded, or if she was on her third or fourth 72-ounce jug of coffee. Maybe she is afraid of flying, I thought, but that didn’t explain why she was turned and staring at the tarmac. Not my problem, I thought, and I decided to mind my business and give her the privacy she so obviously wanted. At least she’s not trying to talk to me, I said to myself. I shut my eyes and blocked her out.

Fifteen minutes became thirty, and we were still sitting on the tarmac. Ugh, my son texted me. I know, I answered. Finally, after an hour wait, the plane began to taxi. As we ascended, I felt a shift in energy, and Miss Coffee Confection changed strategy. It is at this moment that the story really begins.

(If you would like to look up the term “dermatophagia,” you would be well-advised to do it at this time. I apologize for the following paragraphs, but it happened. I’ll try to make it quick).

She began to drag her nails over her face, through her hair, and over her skin. Then she would raise her nails to her mouth, and suck. This went on for the entire 90-minute flight. Scratch, suck scratch, suck. I know she was doing it because as I said, she was turned completely to the window, and couldn’t even see that I was watching her. I don’t think. Anyway, who would blame me?

My horror and disgust cannot be described with the written word.

I squeezed my eyes shut to get the image of her out of my mind, and it occurred to me how much Chuck Palahniuk or Stephen King would like to write about this. How sad, I thought, to be so bat-shit crazy. Suddenly, my constant hair-twirling seemed cute and innocuous. I dug deep, deep down in that place inside, where I go for complete peace. I intoned. Om. Om. Ooooooom. Ooooommmm.

She refused the bag of airplane peanuts. Go figure.

When we landed, I was the Asshole Who Stands Up in the Aisle Even Though There is Nowhere to Go. When I caught the eye of my son, he told me later that he could tell I was frazzled, but thought I was traumatized because of the sixty-minute delay in takeoff.

Ah, naïve youth.

I practically ran off that plane. While walking through the terminal, I was in such obvious distress that the kids peppered me with questions.

What happened, they asked?

I’m not ready, I answered.

I didn’t even share the story until a few days later, when I was well into my second martini at dinner. The kids insisted on hearing it, then yelled at me for telling them such a disgusting story right before they ate.

But you made me! I rebutted.

After the flight, in the terminal, while I waited for the two of them to use the lavatories, the Skin Eater emerged from the ladies’ room, gave me a big smile and said, “Have a great day!”

“You, too,” I answered, shell-shocked, and as I watched her walk away, I wondered if she would have lunch, or if she was full. And I vowed to never fly coach again.

“Only you,” my friend said, when I told her this story. “Only to you could this happen.”

Yeah. Tell me about it.