On a plane ride to Los Angeles, I am once again thrust into the unenviable situation of sitting across from a troubled passenger.
Five hours is a long time to practice the gentle art of ignoring one's surroundings. If only I'd taken that TM course and learned to meditate.
I keep trying to shut my eyes, read or even get some work done like writing in my UCLA journal (actually that was my first choice) but this pudgy women with unkempt, short curly and splotchy dyed blonde hair won't settle down.
She is a constant complainer or CC. CC's are noted not by what they complain about but by their need to let everyone know they are complaining. It doesn't matter where they are or what they are doing -- there is always something wrong with the hand they've been dealt.
From the moment she trundles down the aisle, wrinkles her nose at the too small seats and begins looking for an overhead compartment big enough to fit her luggage and her miscellaneous bags, it's clear this one means to make her presence known.
Before sitting down she drops her bags in the aisle, stopping the boarding process behind her and asks someone how to use the call button. She needs one of the stewards to help her find a place for her many bags. She should have checked them. At least, she could have placed them on her seat and let others pass. No she has to stand, block and wait.
Getting attention is everything. After the luggage is stowed and she's firmly buckled-in, the ritual complainer begins to engage her seat mates.
"The air-conditioning is pumping recycled air, full of germs," she says, while repeatedly sneezing and blowing her nose. "I've read an article about that," she nods with authority as she flips through the worn Enquirer she's brought on board.
When lunch is served she wants to know what everyone else is having and then asks the steward for things she knows are not on the menu.
During the movie she can't get her headset to work. After repeated calls to the steward, who keeps coming to help her, the guy sitting next to her swaps his headset with her. It worked for him but of course it now won't work for her. She wants her money back. She returns his headset, demands her money and settles down for a moment.
But within minutes she's pestering him. She wants him to turn up the volume so she can listen. Then she asks him what's happening. She wants him to explain the movie --provide her with a running, blow by blow commentary. The other movie watchers are getting annoyed.
She keeps watching the film and begins shouting out her reactions to parts of the movie. Finally, someone has the courage to give her a big pursed lip and finger "be quiet." She looks hurt and surprised.
When the movie ends there is only a half-hour to touch down. She fills the time talking to the young woman sitting in the row in front of her.
This strange young thing is a newer version of the complainer. There is some high altitude bonding taking place.
The young one's hair is also straggly blond. But hers is even rattier and the colors are a mix of Kool Aid hues; lemon, lime and grape.
She pushes her neon wrap around sunglasses up onto her head, adjusts her thigh-length, cloth leopard skin coat, rises to her knees and twists in her seat to talk face-to-face with her soulmate -- the complainer.
They exchange chatty gossip about stars' lives, romances and various intrigues. The young one is in the "music" business. The older one is impressed. Not that she knows what any of it means and not that the young one actually has a job.
Finally, we've landed. On the way out the old one asks the steward for a complaint form. She's handed two. She gives one to her new best friend, Ms. Leopard Skin and says, "I'm going to complain."
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