By now I’ve travelled enough to know that I can’t sleep on a plane unless I am nearly comatose. And even then, I rarely actually sleep. It’s more like slipping in and out of consciousness for minutes at a time and in the conscious moments realizing that I’m either drooling or my mouth is open or both or that I have managed to twist my neck into something painful and semi-permanent but then slipping out again only to re-emerge moments later and have the same realizations – maybe attempt to wipe the drool or fix the neck – and become increasingly aware of my sitting bones. This leads to a stretching episode, as much as one can stretch in a seat made for infants, and then I return to the movie or book I had put down 10 minutes earlier before the plane coma overpowered me.
This happens to me every time I fly. I obviously don’t fly any of the classes that allow for personal space. So even though it is still expensive, it’s – by my definition- very close to torture. Not only am I forced into close proximity to strangers who are either children or be-childrend or small-bladdered or big-girthed or prone to conversing, I am also exposed to the ease with which they doze off at their own will. This doesn’t help my inner misanthrope.
Naturally, I am very jealous of anyone who can sleep on a plane. It puzzles and troubles me deeply that someone can board the plane, sit down, buckle up, and immediately proceed to dive into a deep and refreshing slumber. They wake up for the food and then sleep again. Peaceful, quiet and dignified- almost elegant. What is their secret? I want in!
Nope, alcohol does not help. Melatonin doesn’t help.
The only thing that would help is if they allowed me to lie down in the aisle. As if.