So, this Sunday, Chris and I head back down south. Another work trip where I tag along as the lovely and engaging wife. That, and I get a few days down at the IP in Biloxi at the weeks end. If you can't get to Vegas, go south baby!
I thought that I would not freak out about flying this time. I thought maybe, just maybe, I would not spend the entire week before imagining my imminent doom. Hey, why should I exercise if I'm going to die in a plane crash next week. Why not drink the booze and eat the steak? Nobody wishes they'd ate more rice cakes on their way out...
And I was doing good. Until Chris sent me our flight itinerary.
Seats 13 a and B? WTF? That was the only aisle you had open on this puddle jumping piece of crap from Biloxi to Memphis? Really? Aisle 13??????
I think Northwest Airlines is trying to f*ck with me. Seriously.