The Thong Also Rises (26 page)

As I recall, I spotted myself five pounds at the time.

Back then, I didn't really think of it as lying per se.To me, it was more like setting a goal. But, as I splatted out in a vinyl airport lounge seat, I realized I had yet to reach it. In fact, judging by the snugness of my waistband, I had probably raised the bar a little over the years. But I had it covered. Thanks to my big, beige, but not-too-bulky sweater ballooning around me, everything from my neck to just above my knees was concealed in my own personal khaki cocoon. With my bulges hidden and overall shape obscured, I looked like a giant Weeble—a Weeble who clearly favored neutrals. But no one could see my overgrown parts wobble.

Feeling securely camouflaged, I decided to tackle my excess tonnage another day, and deal with a bigger problem: surviving my connecting flight.

Now, I am not really afraid of flying in a plane—it's the
crashing part I'm not so thrilled about. I know it's a fairly pedestrian affair for most people, but the act of defying gravity is not a casual thing for me. Still, experts insist that flying is safer than driving in a car. Which is a small comfort given that I live in Houston, where driving is the city's most popular contact sport.

In my limited flying experience, I have gone through the grab-your-drink, hold-on-tight, and pick-a-religion-any-religion sort of turbulence that simultaneously tests your cardiac, digestive, and bladder functions. I have also been stuck on the ground in a plane for upwards of two hours in the Texas summer heat, because—it was announced after the first hour or so—they were having trouble getting the door closed. I am not kidding. I consider it a badge of honor that I stayed on that plane. But it was big and full of people, and I still believe there's safety in numbers.

Which is why I do feel pretty safe flying, actually. As long as I'm on a huge, hulking monster of an airliner, I tend to have lots of company. You see, I figure the Big Guy upstairs can aim his magnifying glass at cars and pick them off like ants with nary a second thought. But with airplanes, he's got to think long and hard before he decides to let a whole load of passengers go down.

Of course, this theory goes out the window once you get on a little plane. Logically, if you look at them, you would think size alone would give them a great advantage over large jets. After all, they are smaller and lighter, and you would think it would be a whole lot easier to keep them up there. You would think that, but you would be wrong.

Just watch the news, and you will quickly recognize that little planes are the mobile homes of the aviation world. The Big Guy seems to enjoy watching them get tossed and
thrown around like ice in a blender. Which is why people refer to them euphemistically as puddle jumpers, worm burners—or connecting flights. It just sounds better than crapshoot commuters.

When I made my reservation, I thoroughly questioned the ticket agent as to the nature of the aircraft involved. I wanted assurance that the plane was of substantial size and construction. That it did not come out of a box. That duct tape and paper were not part of its structural integrity. That it could not in any way be described as “cute” or “little” or “tiny,” as in “Awwww, what a shame that cute little tiny plane got smashed into such cute little tiny pieces.” That it was a plane that he, himself, would actually feel quite comfortable flying on—along with all that he valued in this life: his dog, his big screen TV, and, perhaps, assorted loved ones.

The agent convinced me that yes, he would indeed board the same aircraft I would be flying on without hesitation— due to its significant strength, remarkable reliability, and, of course, its fairly elephantine proportions.

The prop plane I got on reminded me, once again, that men are prone to bouts of uncommon generosity when it comes to the comparative dimensions of certain things. Because my plane was, well, uh, much smaller than I expected. Frankly, it looked like a slightly more aerodynamic form of a Ford Pinto.

I tried to remain calm. All told, there were maybe four or five passengers, plus a flight attendant. We could have easily fit in a rental car and completely forgotten about this coffin with wings.

To rid my brain of thoughts of imminent peril and pain, I settled into the comfort of my baggy sweater and concentrated on a lighter subject: my plan for a less expansive version of myself—assuming I made it back home. I imagined
the salads I would eat. The desserts I would politely turn down. I saw myself sweating off the parasites that had attached themselves to my body
: Abdominis poochis, Hippus hippopotami
, and
Arsus huges.

The flight attendant interrupted my visions of the newer, thinner, non-parasitized me with a jolting request. Before we could take off, it seemed someone had to volunteer to move to a different seat to balance out the weight of the plane.

This is absolutely true.

Well, I panicked like Jenny Craig caught sneaking into a Krispy Kreme shop.

Were we all going to die because I still had five—O.K., ten—pounds to lose? Was it finally catching up to me after all these years?

Everyone else seemed stunned, too. It's not every day that attention is so pointedly and publicly directed at your body mass—collective though it may be. Perhaps we were all thinking the same thing: maybe Twinkies really can kill you. Maybe that brownie binge was going to do us in. Maybe we all had to answer to our maker for every extra slice of pizza.

Finally, some brave soul got up and moved. I didn't have the nerve to turn around to look to see who it was. I was too ashamed of myself. And my girth.

The flight attendant seemed satisfied that we were ready to go.

I held my breath all the way to my destination.

For what it's worth, during the beverage service, I requested water. And I did not eat the cookie that came with it.

But, I did do a lot of thinking on that flight. I decided it was time to make peace with the fifteen pounds I had put on. Life is just not worth living without a certain amount of cheese and chocolate to get you through.

We landed safely back on earth, and I had survived my
little trip on Just Lucky I Guess Airways. And that was cause enough to eat my cookie in celebration. From then on, I vowed it would be jumbo jets or nothing. Because when it comes to planes—along with certain other things—bigger is definitely better.

Michelle Lott lives in Houston, Texas with three cats and a dog. A veterinarian by trade, she turned to writing when her pets grew tired of listening to her stories. Her love of cheese and chocolate remains boundless, and she refuses to seek help for it.

Not long after having major back surgery, I decided to travel. I flew to Palm Springs in first class, the extra room being just what I needed. A few days later, my onward flight to Las Vegas in a smaller plane had no first class, so I had to fly economy on what promised to be a full flight. We were originally scheduled to depart at 4:25
P.M.
, but a series of automated phone alerts told me the flight would be delayed until 5:40, then 6:30, and finally 7:15. By sheer happenstance, I checked the flight status online at 5:30, only to learn that the flight had been changed
back
to 6:45. I raced through commute traffic to the airport to find the terminal empty. Where was everyone?

I made it to the gate just in time to board, but I was the only one in the boarding area, for a flight I knew was nearly booked because of the seat choices available at the time I booked my ticket.The gate agent informed the crew that the passengers were ready to load—all one of them. When I looked questioningly at her, she said that due to the delay half the booked passengers had been bused to Ontario Airport for a direct flight, and the other half had rented cars and driven. The impatience of these people allowed me to have a once-in-a-lifetime experience—I had the whole plane to myself! All those automated phone calls and the mad dash to the airport had rewarded little old me with a private jet and my very own personal stewardess.

—Susan Brady, “Celebrity for a Flight”

It's up the mountain with Chuck we go.

F
OR WEEKS IN
F
RANCE
, I
FELT LIKE THE CARTOON RABBIT
in the Trix commercials who almost gets the cereal before it's snatched away. “Silly American, France is for sophisticated people!” I imagined being scolded in that sing-song voice each time I mangled a simple French word, wore the wrong outfit to a restaurant, or did the cheek-kiss thing only twice instead of four times.

But here at the finish line for a Tour de France stage in the Pyrenees mountains, surrounded by bicycles and booze, I was as close to being in my element as I'd ever been in France. Sitting with my bike on a grassy hill in front of the giant TV broadcasting the race, plastic cup of wine in one hand, cheese in the other, it was easier to pretend that I blended in with the Europeans around me.

When American Lance Armstrong crossed the finish line first, taking possession of the prestigious yellow jersey from French cyclist Francois Simon, my boyfriend and I cheered politely, but not too loudly, with the rest of the crowd.
However, the American college boys in front of us, wearing matching blue U.S. Postal cycling caps and baggy khaki shorts, let loose. One shook a bottle of champagne, and after a brief struggle, popped the cork, spraying his friends and some of the nearby crowd.

“Whoo-hooooo!” he yelled as he doused his buddy. “Take THAT, ya Frenchies!”

Not to be outdone, the other guy pumped his fist in the air. “Yeah!” he shouted. “
Yeah!
”

A few people nearby looked at the boys and sighed. “
Americans,
” they seemed to say wearily, before ignoring them. Rolling my eyes, I sighed too, hoping that my American accent had gone unnoticed.

“Tourists,” I said under my breath like an insult. For once, I wasn't the one committing a
faux pas.
I looked at Bob and smiled.

“What?”

“They should know better,” I said smugly as we started riding down the mountain. But my self-satisfaction soon faded as the altitude, sun, and alcohol took their toll. I was dehydrated, and was quickly developing a headache. Exhaust fumes from the hundreds of vehicles stuck in a traffic jam on the mountain road saturated the air, and my little headache sprouted like a pop-up sponge.

When we got to the town of Arreau, just before we were to ride over another mountain pass, I realized I couldn't go any farther. I collapsed on a bench in a quiet square near the center of town while Bob went to find aspirin. He returned with a round white pill nearly the size of my fist and a glass of water.

“Were you at the pharmacy or the veterinarian's?” I asked.

“It's like Alka-Seltzer,” Bob explained as we watched the pill dissolve into a mass of fizzy bubbles in the glass.

It can't be that bad
, I thought as I gulped down the mixture. By the time Bob returned the glass to the pharmacist and came back, I was feeling better and willing to try riding again. Bob, however, had other plans.

“We're going to hitchhike,” he announced.

Great. I've never liked hitchhiking because of the rejection. Plus, there's the pressure to perform. When accepting a ride from a stranger, I've always felt like I've entered into an unwritten pact: it's the driver's job to provide the transportation, and it's my duty to provide polite but engaging conversation, leaving the kindly stranger with a good story to tell friends back home.