The Mile High Club

The Mile High Club is not what it used to be.  Not. At. All.   When there’s no other choice but to escort your hyper-active, six-year old, lunatic son to the lavatory about a dozen times during a two hour flight, it sure does gives new meaning to being a member of The Mile High Club.

My husband had tapped out shortly after the aircraft went wheels up and by the time we began cruising at an altitude of thirty thousand feet, the whining had officially set in.

“Mommy, it’s not my fault I have to go to the bathroom again.”

“The plane keeps making my body do it.”

  I couldn’t let him go alone, could I?  Trust me I wanted to, but I knew I couldn’t.  “Again?  Okay, let’s go,” I said sighing under my breath.  I was completely skeeved out from the second my eye caught the VACANT sign and after boxing us into what felt like one of those street corner telephone booths and sliding the metal latch to the left so it would reflect an OCCUPIED status, I was dripping sweat from claustrophobia.  I wasn’t able to hold my nose to avoid the stench because I was too busy yelling at my kid.

“DO NOT.  TOUCH.  ANYTHING.”

“I’LL DO IT FOR YOU.  JUST STAND HERE.  HANDS IN THE AIR.  DON’T MOVE.  AIM DOWN.”

“HURRY.”

Praying that I’d be able to suppress my gag reflex after inhaling the recirculated air, it was almost impossible not to think about how utterly wasted I must have been on that evening flight to Las Vegas many, many, many, many years ago when I earned my wings and willingly got initiated into The Mile High Club.  I seriously must have been out of my unpolished mind.  No wonder they call it The Mile HIGH Club.

Believe me, I can live with the unpolishedness of my behaviors from yesteryears.  As a matter of fact, I miss that kind of impulsiveness.  What grosses me out though, is the disgusting “unsanitary-ness” of it all.  Getting slammed up against a wall (or a sink) is one thing.  Getting slammed up against anything in a public bathroom on a filthy airplane is quite another.  The thought makes me want to vomit.

 Looking back, I suppose my germaphobia hadn’t revved up into full gear until after the night I had gotten revved up by taking off my full gear!

JUST TO LET YOU KNOW…  If anyone out there is considering membership into The Mile High Club I strongly suggest a test run to feel it out first.  Perhaps find yourself a sugar rushed child and take ’em back and forth to the lavatory twelve times.  It’s just a hunch, but I’d be willing to bet you’d have second thoughts about boning any body in an itty, bitty bathroom in the back of a Boeing.  

Now, if you wanna talk about banging above the clouds while flying the friendly skies ON A PRIVATE PLANE…. Well, that’s a club I’ve yet to join but it has the kind of unpolished (sex) appeal that intrigues me.  If given the chance, I’d definitely entertain seeking membership!  Wouldn’t you?