The Chronicles of an Overhydrated 30-Year-Old: Airplane Edition

I’m sitting patiently—with a passive restlessness—in seat 31E. The middle seat in the very last row of Peach Airlines flight 215 to Naha, Okinawa. Right there. All the way in the back. 

Watching for the first indication of in-flight freedom. Watching to see when they'll switch off the fasten seatbelt sign. 

It feels like we’re still ascending. I'm confident they’ll turn it off in 5 minutes or so.

My brain muses. My bladder hopes. 

I feel the cool air on my skin. I reach up, turn the knob once to the right. Less air. That’s better. 

Look to my left. My aisle counterpart has surrendered to sleep. How the heck am I supposed to tell her I need to answer nature's call, now?

Look to my right. My window confrère is typing furiously with taut T-Rex arms on his laptop. The woman seated in front of him slowly reclines her chair. The tray table moves an inch closer to his stomach. He rolls his eyes. Readjusts. Pulls back the wrists, the shoulders, engages double-chin function. 

Again, I look up. The seatbelt light is still on. We must still be ascending, I reason.

Look out the window. Water. Everywhere. 

A characteristic aircraft bing-bong sounds over the PA system. If you've been on an airplane before, you'll know the one. My eyes dart up expectantly. The seatbelt light… still on. Of course.

I prepare to do some mental math—near impossible for my brain to execute under normal circumstances, but imperative in such a dire situation. OK. The last time I went to the bathroom was 15 minutes prior to boarding. Boarding took around 7 minutes. We've been in the air for about 5 minutes. I can wait it out for another 5 minutes. There's no way it'll be more than 5 minutes, I conclude.

Another bing-bong. I shoot my gaze up. This time, there’s a frantic inferno behind my eyes. Seatbelt sign, don’t do me dirty again. 

Still on. 

I take a deep breath. Exhale in a smooth, controlled, hostile way. Expand my nostrils for maximum respiration. Reach my right arm up. Turn the knob once to the left. More air. Much better. 

Massage my temples. The baby three rows up has stopped crying. For now.

The plane bobs. My first thought is the Bermuda Triangle. How many planes are down there? Probably more than we know. Malaysian Airlines Flight 370 comes to mind. Which of the three leading theories is more probable, I wonder.

I look up. Slowly. Like a dog who knows he’s in trouble for tearing into the trash. How is the seatbelt light still on right now?

This is a 2-hour flight. I highly doubt I can make it through a 2-hour flight like this. I feel the perspiration form on the back of my neck.

I lean my head back, driving my crown into the headrest. As if pushing my head against the seat will help the pee reabsorb into my body. Does it feel like time moves slower on airplanes, or is that just me?

Ah, more turbulence. Just what I need as the air in my stomach expands with every 100 feet of altitude. Pushing down on my bladder. 

I shouldn’t have had that matcha latte. 

Bing-bong. 

Is that…

Score. The seatbelt sign is off.

I unclip my seat belt with the fury of a teppanyaki chef chopping a cooked egg opposite a group of open-mouthed tourists.

Someone walks casually past as I struggle to get my aisle seater's attention.

Their destination? You guessed it. The bathroom.