Dear God, It's Me, Yehudah

("And I have this annoying American next to me on the plane...")

We've all had bad flights before. I am the first person I know to vomit on Orthodox jews mid-flight.

Initially, I was pleased with my seat. Toward the front. Window Seat. I sit down and open my Vogue. My neighbors, who we'll call Yahudah and Abraham open the Talmud. They've barely hit puberty and look just adorable in black and white as they store their hats in the overhead bin.

Everything's going well, until it hits me. I realize that because of the time change, I should be taking my birth control, about...now. I discreetly reach into my bag and attempt to pop it out of the container into my hand that's in the purse.
On the way to my mouth, I drop it. Like a cokehead diving after the last bit of blow, I frantically start searching around my skirt and purse area. No luck. I start flailing my arms and making little panicky noises as I search.

"Did you drop something?" Yehudah asks. "NO! I mean, no, no, I'm fine," i mumble. More flailing of the arms and searching. I find the elusive fucker and continue casually flipping through my magazine.

Then a wave of nausea hits me, much like that time I downed multiple pitchers of Sangria at Bar 10. Urgent, Strong, but...sober this time? Strange. I think I was a solid 12 years old the last time I booted during the day. (There were all those benders when I was 11, but that's a different story)

Trip 1 to the airplane toilet. Goodbye meals of the day. I mumble apologies to Yahudah and Abraham on the way back to my window seat.

10 minutes later. Turbulence. Oh God. I try desperately not to curse on the way to the toilet, lest I hurt their Y and A's (peot)-protected ears. I pass out from exhaustion for a little bit, thinking how much shittier vomiting is when you're sober.

When I wake up again, after the foolish mistake of trying to drink water, except now, everyone's asleep. It's urgent this time. I mumble Excuse Me to Y and A, but they're long asleep.

Then, my stomach starts to rebel. It's now or on their black pants.
"PLEASE DEAR GOD MOVE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE MOVE MOVE MOVE!!!" I start screaming as do an awkward tango over their laps (they jump up...i'm guessing they weren't a big fan of the vomiting-girl loin on theirs...)

No good. An Air France stewardess is bent over, ass against the Toilet Door. Naturally I start to hit her side with my free hand. (A gentle tap, she assured me later), and I reacquaint myself with my new bff, the Air France toilet.

Move over, Mile High Club, "Vomiting constantly" is the new "Sex on an airplane."

Yours Awkwardly,
F