So there was this one time, in winter. Flying in coach. And they make planes so small now. When I was younger, planes were huge. But I was flying alone. Going back home maybe? Holidays. I was punishing my holiday blood sugars and gotten a little liberal with my lantus, my long acting insulin. The plane began its thirty minte plunge into O'Hare and my chest began to spasm. Increase in air pressure inversely related to decrease in blood sugar. Shaking. Sweaty. So fucking sweaty. The woman next to me is overweight. I like windows, but by choosing this seat I had condemned myself to being stuck. I dared not ask her to move. I stare at the flight attendent call button. But then the huge lady next to me might be worried. I was just one little person in a sea of travellers. What was so special about me? The thirty minutes was taking forever. I'd press the orange button. A ding would go off. What if they were already strapped in? "hello. Yes. Soda. Why? Sugar. Diabetic." They'd understand, probably. But what if they didn't? It could be a huge hassle; huger than her blocking my escape, my polite attempts to free myself into the aisle and get help myself. But I couldnt blame her at this point. The seat belt sign was on. My slowly unfocusing gaze let the lights of the signs flare into my vision. I looked back outside. Dense life. The city now. I imagined the streets, with their .... Mmmmm .... Chicago food. Ah. Popcorn and hot dogs and hamburgers. Gyros. Ah. 7-11 Slurpees and Ah. Pizza. Ah. Thin crust cut in squares. Heaven. This plane couldn't take me there fast enough. I'd shake and sweat, cramped into the, place my head into the, usually wonderful window, until I could, probably forty-five minutes from now, content myself with McDonalds. Because hey, when your blood sugar's 45, a chicken mcnugget can taste like the best slice of pizza you've ever had. Ah. The power of adrenaline on your taste buds. And everything trembling like this plane.
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