December 7th, 2006 by Jennine

It was like a dream come true. I had a ticket to fly to Atlanta to see Andrea Bocelli in concert and I was beside myself with joy.

I put a great deal of thought and planning into my first solo adventure, choosing sophisticated outfits and womanly shoes, as opposed to my routine sweatpants and Keds. I had my hair fixed in an expensive salon. I had a manicure. I bought new lipstick and perfume, determined not to look like a country girl visiting the big city for the day.

I did not sleep a wink the night before my exodus. I took a long shower, set my hair in hot rollers, applied my new expensive makeup and waited for the alarm to wake Darren. It seemed like an eternity and I did not want my designer perfume to fade before I walked down the aisle of the airplane. I wanted to reek of Well-Traveled-And-I-Live-In-A-Loft-Overlooking-The-City woman.

As Darren dropped me off at the airport, I felt like Mary Tyler Moore throwing her hat into the air. I made it through airport security with plenty of time to spare so I purchased a huge Starbucks latte and a Glamour magazine and sat down at the crowded gate. I mindlessly flipped through the pages of the magazine as I sipped my adult drink and contemplated the grown-upness of me. It was so easy, at this point, to ignore the dull ache of my feet, which were unaccustomed to high heels.

Here I was, a mother of seven, traveling by air to see an Italian man sing in a language I could not comprehend. No one would glance at me and guess that the day before I wiped feces off my child’s bedroom wall and yelled at one of the boys to get the chicken out of the house. I even appeared calm despite my fear of crash landing.

Before I finished reading the article “Top Ten Ways to flirt with the Man Seated Next to You on the Plane”, they announced the last call for boarding over the intercom. I intentionally delayed my boarding until the last moment because that is what sophisticated, Well-Traveled-I-Live-In-a-Loft-Overlooking-The-City women do. I took my seat, near the wing of the plane, between one woman with a baby on her lap and another who was large enough to take up her space and most of mine.

There would be no flirting on this flight.

The flight was great. There was no turbulence; the child next to me was well entertained with finger foods and apart from for the large sneezes from the large woman on the other side of me (I think she had a reaction to my perfume) everything was perfect…until the super duper latte kicked in and I needed to use the rest room. This was something I had not planned for ahead of time. Should I leave my carry-on or take it with me? How does the toilet flush? Will there be water to wash my hands? What if the plane suddenly descends or takes a sharp turn?

I apologetically excused myself and made my way to the lavatory near the back of the plane. My feet throbbed as I passed two dozen rows of seats, but I smiled at everyone who happened to make eye contact with me along the way.

The restroom was much smaller than I had imagined. I tried to hurry so that no one would think that Well-Traveled-I-Live-In-a-Loft-Overlooking-The-City woman was pooping on an aircraft since that would just be so…uncity-like. I swiftly pulled up my pantyhose, flushed the toilet, washed my hands and smoothed out the front of my skirt. I checked out my appearance in the small mirror, pinched my cheeks for coloring and promptly returned to my seat.

The landing was perfect. The captain announced the balmy temperature and I squealed with joy on the inside as I stood to gather my carry-on bag. I heard some people giggling in celebration of the pleasant weather announcement in the rows behind me as I carefully squeezed into the line of passengers waiting to exit the plane. That is when I felt the tap on my sophisticated shoulder:

“Miss, it seems your skirt is tucked into your pantyhose. I thought you’d want to know” said the handsome Well-Traveled-I-Live-In-a-Loft-Overlooking-The-City man. That explained the giggling.

My hand instantly moved to my rear end, fully exposed by the captured hem of my sexy skirt. To make matters worse, I had chosen to wear my “comfortable” country girl/granny underwear.

With a beet red face and a quick yank of silky fabric, I transformed back to my identity of Country-Girl-Who-Stacks-Hay-In-a-Loft-Overlooking-The-Prairie.

I wore pants on the flight home.