The Big Trip

Our one and only time in first class. Thanks airlines for messing up! Last two hours of our honeymoon flight. Still snug but comfortable.

Remember when you first got on a plane, it was exciting adrenaline filled experience, something new and fun you could tell your friends about. My sister, her baby blue eyes lit up, grinning ear to ear, said about her first trip at thirteen, “I was above the clouds!” Now that I have been on a plane at least ten or so times, I think it is a slog. I mean airlines are the only technology that never seems to improve in the past forty or so years. It seems to get worse, bigger fares, smaller seats, and now we even have to pay to bring our clothes with us. The worst part for someone like me: big boned, plus sized, chubby, fat, or whatever you want to call it. We all hate to fly. The seats are so small.

Flying from Boise, Idaho to my home state of Oklahoma is an exercise in contortion for my husband and me. We have to try and make of our limbs disappear, usually my shoulder. The small two seat planes are the lesser of two evils for us, because then we are only inconveniencing each other. We are only mushing against each other. There is a rotation we do, one leans forward while the other puts their arm behind them and vice versa. This last visit, I actually got up and stood in the isle for a while when the seat belt sign went off. I stood there nervously trying not to look at the other travelers behind us or next to us who were otherwise sleeping, surfing, or watching things. I know they were wondering what I was doing because at one point all of them were glancing at me awkwardly. For the first twenty four hours of every trip I have a sore shoulder.

The worst part is the three-seater plane. The poor passenger that has to share a row with us usually is very crabby. I know that people say that fat people should buy first class, but we can’t afford it. We especially can’t afford it for two people.  If the mainstream got their way I wouldn’t see my parents for two years instead of every year. Which my mom is tired of already; the pain on her face as I walked through security was brutal.

Brad celebrating our good fortune!

So this is just another reason, I need to lose weight. When husband and I got together we dreamed of a life of traveling the globe, but if two hour flights are painful, then what on earth am I going to do for ten hours over an ocean. Can you imagine the cramps, aches, and headaches we would have? I want go to a gorgeous Greek island and stay in an entirely sun bleached village. I want to spend time in the vast reefs of the Maldives, and if I don’t manage to take my husband for high tea in London someday I will consider myself a failure as a wife.

So I am going to plan to fly over the ocean, and I trying to figure out a goal time to set: three years, five years or what do you suggest? I want to buy the tickets and know that is when I need to be a lot smaller. What do you think? Too risky? Too bold? Too much pressure for my husband? Perhaps two plane tickets to London, a ten day trip on a queen size bed, or a small cabin of a train would motivate us? Thoughts?

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