As I sat here composing a complaining rant that my red-eye flight had no wifi or adjustable headrests or food or pillows or blankets or happy employees, that it was filled with a symphony of snores and a drum line of coughs and chimes of crying babies and that someone was kicking my seat (same someone laughing boisterously as if she were in her own private theatre) and lights being turned on and off and someone joyously chewing open-mouthed and that I really had to pee for three of the five and a half hours on the flight but didn’t want to wake up my step-daughter or the gal in the aisle seat so I held it in and that the gate agent made me stuff my clutch sized purse in to my carry-on because it was considered “a third item” (when, by the way, I had just witnessed a family strolling down the jetway, each with a dog and two carry-on items) and my eyes shriveling up in their sockets because I couldn’t sleep or get the air vent quite right or stop reading Amy Poehlers book and not being able to find my Chapstick because it was in aforementioned clutch that I was forced to stow in my overhead carry-on while my lips were on dry-fire and I couldn’t find my lotion to put on my sunburn or neosporin to put on my cut and refusing to look at my watch because I didn’t want to know how much longer we had until landing only to hear the aisle girl pipe up and ask the flight attendant “how much longer do we have?”

THEN just at that moment, our little row (12 ab&c) all got up to hit the lav in unison, we were now officially a team. I flung open the window shade much to the chagrin of my seat kicker (karma, bitch) and I realized…….

I just got on an aluminum jet fueled aircraft, watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean and in only a few short hours I was watching it rise over the Atlantic Ocean.

And that was pretty fucking sweet.