Oh, Italy, what a Summer.
Oh coming home, what an... adventure. Meghan, you help me out if I missed something.
So in 2000, I was lucky enough to spend some of the Summe in Florence, Italy. Not a bad gig if you can get it. NYU has a 65 acre property there and staying in a villa in the hills? Ridiculous. One of the best times I will ever have, I am sure.
At the end of the Summer, one of my roommates, Meghan, and one of my classmates, Micah, and I headed to the airport to catch our flight home, which would connect through Paris.
Pause here. See, at this time, I was not a huge fan of flying but I could survive it. My homegirl Meghan, though? Not so much a fan. And so she lovingly took some xanax prior to boarding and it mellowed her out a bit. And by a bit, I mean it made her funny and loopy and semi-conscious. (I was jealous.)
Anyway, we get on the plane and amazingly, I pass out before we even take off. I'm gone. I am blissfully unaware of the world around me. This is how I like it. This is how I like to spend a good flight if I can.
But with a tap-tap-tapping on my shoulder, I awaken. Oddly, I awaken facing in a 45 degree angle DOWNWARD. You know, like how you might be posed if your airplane was CRASHING INTO THE EARTH. And there is my tap-tap-tapping friend, Meghan, also blissfully unaware but in a drug-induced way, peacefully whisperng to me "just wanted to tell ya, nothing to worry about, minor problem... but it seems an engine has stopped working and we might, might, crash. But go back to sleep, m'k?"
Past Meghan, I can see Micah, a shell of a man, cying and praying to God in Hebrew. Nuns on our plane are praying. The flight attendants are nowhere to be seen cause they are buckled in for the big boom.
Except one stewardess who is on the P.A. telling us the news. In French. Which is fne cause Meghan actually speaks some Fren-- oh wait, Meghan is marvelling over the pretty colors. So much for that.
And about as quickly as I am typing this very sentence, engine kicks in, we level out, swing around, and head right back to Florence.
At the airport, I demanded the evil French-speaking people get me to a phone. I called my parents and asked them to buy me a rowboat. I begged them fo a cruise ticket. ANY WAY I could get my ass back to the U.S of A sans PLANE. I was striking out.
Meghan, coming down from the high, described the experience for us: "UN AVION EL CRASHED-O." This is a fabulos blend of French and Italian, I believe. Basically, she was saying "plane go boom."
And what did those Facist bastards make us do? GET BACK ON THE PLANE. You can imagine my joy at this. The drugs were gone now and the three of us were panic-stricken little guppies in a sea of evil Frenchies. We got stuck on that plane, praying for our lives, and then stuckin Paris for a night at the dumpiest motel in the history of the world. The shower was not a shower, people. It was a spout. Hanging from the ceiling. Over a drain in the floor. I've held hockey pucks softer than the bread they served us for breakfast.
The next day, we boarded another plane. I don't remember this. I assume because I was so petrified by this point that I let my body. I remember landing at JFK. I remember that we literally dropped to our knees, thankful to be alive. I remember Air France lost my luggage and sentit to Denver and I remember them delivering it to me at 4am a few days later. And I remember the $100 voucher they sent me for my troubles so that I could fy their friendly skies in the future. My mother, in her innate wisdome, ripped up the voucher and mailed it back to them.
I've not been able to fly without the assistance of medication since. I panic. And not just right before and during. The panic sets in about a month before and builds painfullym slowly and gradually. About a week prior, the nightmares start. A couple days before, my stomach knots up. The night before, I am lucky to get two hours of sleep and I am an utter MESS right up unil the xanax enters my mouth and dissolves into mybloodstream. But that shit is magic. I'm usually asleep pretty soon after and unconscious until I land.
I'm not a big fan of over-medicating but dammit, God bless the makers of Xanax.
And that is my tale of the avion that went crashed-o. I've become less bitter about it over the years and now appreciate how hilarious it is. My teenagers have asked me to tell the story more than once and they lauh their asses off. So do I.
But not so muchtonight since I am now two nights away...
Now, I have to tell you, it looks sort of pretty there with the right color against beautiful skin on a not-really-plus-sized-model but in the color I got (a tan), it's kind of ugly. But for those of you who know about this, finding a large bra that is also pretty is near impossible. I have finally stopped worrying about pretty and now just wish (rather desperately) for comfort and support. 
