Recently, I flew from Detroit to Chicago. The two-and-a-half hour delay was the highlight of my night. The worst part was the flight.
It was supposed to take 50 minutes, but it took two hours. There was wind, there was rain, there was lightning, there was circling, and there were ups and downs. One down in particular scared the hell out of me.
It wasn’t just the sudden drop; it was the flight attendant’s reaction to it. She rushed for her seat, picked up the phone, and called the pilot. Whatever he said clearly distressed her, and that distressed me.
I assume flight attendants are trained to yawn and check their watches during nosedives and terrorist takeovers, but 90 minutes into the 50-minute flight, my flight attendant looked as worried as I did.
I tightened my seat belt. I grabbed my armrests. I typed a text message to my loved ones. (I knew the message wouldn’t send, but I figured somebody might scavenge through the wreckage, discover my phone and return it to my family.)
Oddity: One of the things I was most upset about was that I wouldn’t get to watch the Lost series finale.
Observation: They call it “circling,” but I saw other planes to our right and left, so either they use multiple circles or we were figure-eighting.
I don’t know if I’m supposed to have a new lease on life today, but mostly I’m pissed — pissed that they delayed the flight two-and-a-half hours. I mean, if they were okay with flying us into the heart of the storm, why not just do it on time?