Things don't always go my way.

Due to my late check-in for my flight from Indy to Chicago, I was given one of the seats directly behind first class with extra foot room (not that I need it). I was so excited for a bigger, more comfy chair....until I sat down (insert horror movie music here).

The man-beast in the seat next to mine was so horrid, the cute Canadian that I had been flirting with glanced back at me and laughed with sympathy. He offered to see if the man next to him would be willing to switch, though his request was denied. Thanks anyway, eh?

Disappointed, I eased into the spacious chair as the surface area decreased as the thing next to me oozed under the armrest, his extremity flopping into my seat. I maneuvered my purse (sorry, Michael Kors, I will clean you immediately upon returning home), between this sleeping giant and myself while popping my earbuds into my ears to escape to what many call their “happy place.”

As I was trying to decide whether to order a vodka sprite (soda on airplanes is usually flat) or if I should just go hard and get a whiskey diet, the darling flight attendant interrupted my thoughts. Not hearing what he said, I naturally replied with a timid, “vodka-sprite please, extra ice.” The flaming man apologized and offered to buy me a drink after the flight but due to the limited airtime, they do not offer drinks between Indy and Chicago. This is what hell feels like. I glanced between the grizzly beat next to me and my potential new gay friend with sad puppy dog eyes. He promptly snuck over an airplane sized bottle of Finlandia and a water bottle, making a gesture as if to say, this is the best I can do, honey. I smiled graciously and dumped the contents of the tiny bottle into the water. Better already.

To fully explain this critter, I need you to step into my shoes (black Coach wedges with silver buckles). I’m about 5’3 and fluctuate between 115 and 120, petite by the definition of any professional women's clothing retailer; Ann Taylor, Banana and JCrew. I do not fill the seats labeled as “plus-sized,” and because of this, offered to trade seats. Even the larger victims on the plane chose to be crammed into their tiny space than sit next to this guy. His dreads reeked of three month old cigarettes, immense body odor, and baby dust bunnies. The gauges in his ears were so large that I could easily shove a golf ball in there, but the infection was the distracting part. I won’t begin to address his soiled, wrinkled and torn clothing (oops, just did), but will move straight to his shoes and bag. They were designer. Explain this to me. Someone please tell me why this phenomenon is okay. I have no issues with dreads, gauged ears or filthy clothes. I know plenty of people that look great in dreads, if I wear my hair curly and don’t wash it for a day or two, then I have dreads (rope hair, as my Grampy calls it). There are a lot of sexy men, and women for that matter, with gauged ears (holey head, as my Grampy says). The people that follow this grunge-hipster-whatever trend understand that the look says “low maintenance,” but it is work to have rope hair and holey ears. And by work, I of course mean basic hygiene that is expected of any self-sustainable human being over the age of ten.

For the duration of the flight I counted down the minutes, based on the direction from my new gurlfriend, the flight attendant. The creature next to me was making a repulsive sound, the only way to describe it is how I imagine it sounds when you strangle someone to death -- except that person also has a phlegmy sinus infection. Every few snores, this guy would make a loud whimper-gasp that was so high pitched (this coming from me, and I sound like a Sesame Street character), I would jump from my seat. Good thing I followed the instructions and had my safety belt fastened, otherwise I would have been on the floor of the plane roughly every 90 seconds. This disgusting sound reminded me of the floppy bloodhound, Ol’ Trusty, in Lady and the Tramp, that would chase the caterpillar in his sleep. It was startling, offensive to my ears, and repulsive. I wanted to ninja-kick him in the ribs but changed my mind because I didn’t want to land on the “no-fly” list. Not for such a trivial reason anyway. Evil laugh.

Ol’ Trusty here slept through the take-off and all of the turbulence on the flight. I seriously want to know what he took to make him comatose. Mainly so I can suggest it to one of my oldest friends, as she sobs hysterically on flights -- it’s seriously embarrassing. You know who you are. The lights were flickering, a baby was wailing behind our row and a small child was violently kicking the seat. I was envious of the child because he was impaling Ol’ Trusty the way that I wanted to. Time for our landing. I look to my seatmate in the hopes that he had woken up and the awful sound (which I’m still hearing in my head three days later), will come to an end. I see his drool sliding down the aircraft window like a toxic river coming from a radiation plant. Mental note: travel with clorox wipes and never, under any circumstance, touch the windows. He loudly dozes through the landing, without missing a whimper-gasp-snore but there is light at the end of the tunnel. I’m in the third row so I know I’ll be escaping soon.

Nope. We were early and our terminal isn’t ready, allowing time for a twenty minute taxi around hell (the runway), and for Ol Trusty to continue his nap. By this time (fifty-six minutes since I boarded but who is counting?), I was beginning to dry heave each time this noise occurred. The Jon Stewart -looking guy across the aisle gave me a shrug in a way that one might give a stray animal but avoids eye contact after that. Right as I begin to ponder the pros and cons of vomiting in an airplane lavatory, the flight attendant announces that we’re arriving to the terminal. My prayers have been answered. As I root for the Tums in my purse, Ol’ Trusty pushes into me with his designer bag, while flinging the drool that was on his face in my direction. My handsome Jon look-alike helps me off the seats I’m currently sprawled over and hands over his free drink coupon. It’s all I could do to keep from sobbing while I wipe my face with Purell.