on airlines making my deviant lifestyle more difficult to pursue

There was a time, a glorious time when I picture Rat Packs having roamed both the club circuit and the skies, that naturally lounge-y cats and their groupies, like myself, boarded DC-10s in style, pockets to the brim with Pall Malls and butane lighters. Toxic-like Britney sky goddesses sauntered the slim aisles promising smiles and Sanka.

Smokes were smokeable on the tarmac or at 37,000 feet. Against the felt backdrop of an orange and green 747 first-class divider, multiple grey plumes clouded the back passengers' views. New showings of the latest 007 or George Burns vehicle thrilled both floors, although some enjoyed the shtick with champagne. I have noted that the peanuts and the pretzels remain archaically, and horrifically, the same.

During that time, jetsetting around the world was what I wanted to do when I grew up, right after I conquered cake decorating. I wanted to be a woman on the move, just like Pamela Ewing had been, waking up after sexual intercourse with Bobby with a pale bedsheet across my chest, tucked neatly under my arms. On dirty oil money, I could jet away at a moment’s notice, gulping those tiny bottles of clear liquid as I went. And I'd do all of it while wearing lots and lots of lip gloss and quite possibly pink spandex, just like Erin Grey did.

I have had some good times on these planes, well past the days of TWA and Eastern Airlines, and well into the years of ordering adult beverages within the International Dateline.

And so it was.

I had never taken valium before. And I had never been old enough to drink wine, the free wine that international flight attendants threw around like ticker tape. But now I was certifiably 21, and certifiably crippled by fright about making the multi-hour trip from the States to London. So I whipped up a Malibu rum and orange juice in the Newark Airport bathroom, popped two valium, and boarded the plane with a smile. I ended up sleeping through takeoff. When fear crept into the room, I'd simply pop another valium. By valilum number three I was roaming the aisles making friends with those sweet South Dakotans; by wine number four I had a date for Wimbledon; at valium number five I was simply helping myself to the drink cart as it went down the aisle. Seven valium and eight tiny bottles of wine later, my parents were the lonesome two left waiting outside of Gatwick customs for their arriving daughter. Because she was in the cockpit.

This drinking and traveling thing would work out just fine. On a flight between Tallahassee and New Jersey with an inevitable stopover in Atlanta, home of all things Delta and humid, the man across the aisle asked my name and destination. Funny that we’d both be traveling to Newark that day, same flights and all. After the 38-minute flight to ATL, we were probably one drink deep. At the Chili’s To Go bar we drank two more and laughed while chatting about the motherland; by the time we were ready to board our final jet he was at the check-in counter switching our seats so we – now a reportedly blonde, mutt sister and her classically Italian brother – could sit next to one another. I fell asleep during takeoff. I woke up to him stroking my face. The one on which he wore his wedding band.

I was quick to let him know that a) drinks are great and b) laughing is even better, but that c) I was not raised on Jerry Springer and therefore do not pursue said drama. He looked at me as if I had horns, which I might have, given that my hair was likely matted due to my tipsy sleeping pose. "Yes, cheating. At what point did you become a cheater?" And he began to spill. His first tryst developed after a telephone conversation with a saleswoman. Then there was another, then others. His wife, his young children never knew. I was kind to him, more interested in studying his kind than anything. I shared my disapproval.

Later I caught him behind me in the bathroom line (those that existed freely prior to 9/11). He whispered a soft, "sure you don't want to join the mile-high club?" in my ear. I likely showered with bleach for at least the following week.

ok. more later.