ETD Does Not Matter, As Long As There Is Christmas Ale

I fear that the holiday season has gotten the best of me. I broke communication with the blogosphere, but please do not be offended, as I also broke correspondence with the gym and the scale. Since my two alternatives this evening are to put an end to my sedentary lifestyle or unpack, I return to discuss my journey home.

Holiday travel has been a source of minor controversy between my father and me. He obviously is not thrilled by the idea of me driving for eight hours, and I do not blame him. My driving record could certainly be referenced to prove the dangers of such travel. However, I like the sense of control gained from being behind the wheel, and thoroughly dislike the unreliable organization of flying. Yes, I have to be on time for the flight or I am cast aside with no consideration, but the flight has no loyalty or responsibility to me. What kind of dysfunctional relationship is that?

This Christmas, upon his relentless insistence, I decided to fly home. I departed Wednesday before the sun rose, and the journey was surprisingly pleasant. I met a lovely woman en route D.C. and we spent the entire flight talking entirely too much considering the ungodly hour. My father met me in Cleveland, and it was great to have a captive audience for forty-five minutes as I rambled about the current events in my life. Although this drive may have made him reconsider asking me to fly, I believe he enjoyed the conversation as much as I did.

However, the fates were clearly on a mission to vindicate my apprehension toward air travel. Saturday night, I received a text offering me a sideline pass to the Browns game. Despite my disdain for communication via text, if there is a chance I will make eye contact with Colt McCoy involved, I will accept them. As it was, I had a plane to catch Sunday afternoon, so I would not be able to make the game. Since my presence may have spurred the Browns to victory, this was not only a major loss for myself, but also a devastating blow to the city of Cleveland.

Yes, I was going to miss the opportunity to stand in the twenty degree, snowy weather and witness yet another Cleveland loss, but at least I would get to Charlottesville at a decent hour. As is the case with flying in the winter, though, this was not true. I walked to the gate of my plane, only to learn that the flight had been delayed two and a half hours due to inclement weather in Charlotte- meaning there was a small dusting of snow.

At this point, I was faced with various options. I could read a book, take a nap, or drink a beer and watch football. Since I am opposed to intellectual stimulation, I opted not to read, and if I took a nap, I would not be able to sleep on the plane. Instead, I decided to drink a beer in the hopes that I would be in a prime state to pass out before the stewardess told me how to fasten my seat belt. Practical, I know.

I sat down at the bar and decided to order a glass of wine, showing a bit of class. It was during my glass of wine that a man ordered Christmas Ale. I immediately told everyone within earshot of my family's recently discovered method of drinking the beer in a honey-rimmed glass dipped in cinnamon and brown sugar. Obviously, this led to vocal accolades of the Great Lakes Brew, and as the man returned to his table, the girl beside me and I began talking. Conversation started with a mutual love of Christmas Ale and expanded to our jobs, school, and family. While I do not believe I will ever see Lisa again, I do wish her well in Seattle.

All this talk of Christmas Ale had made me seriously reconsider my initial choice of beverage, and since I still had an hour until boarding, I paid eight dollars for my final beer of the season. As I took my first sip, a gentleman took Lisa's seat and ordered his first Christmas ale. How an individual can go through twenty two years in Cleveland and have never tasted the beer is a crime, but I forgave the guy since he had skin of a perfect mocha shade and glistening green eyes. After reprimanding him for avoiding the beer all these years, our conversation blossomed. He was a charming individual who now lives in Dallas and is beginning a start up website comparable to Facebook. Honestly, I think it could be a great idea; it is a site where one can anonymously vent and ask for advice, and everyone I know always needs advice. Of course, with those eyes, he could have told me he was thinking of starting a site dedicated to only foreplay involving feet, and I would have told him to sign me up. This relationship ended as quickly as the last, although he did leave me with a new R&B CD and his full name. I went to hand him my business card, but alas, I had already given it to the woman I met on an earlier flight. Apparently, those puppies are in higher demand than I anticipated.

When he left, the guy sitting to my left initiated conversation. He had tried to do so multiple times before, but I was as politely callous as possible, discretely trying to relay the message that I had a gorgeous guy on my right who was consuming my attention. Harsh, perhaps, but I did not feel as bad once I discovered he had a girlfriend. He only plays a significant role in my story because he was escorted off our flight after being rude to the stewardess who told him he would need to check his bag. Again, this is a shame, but entertaining nonetheless.

As anticipated, the alcohol knocked me out, and I slept quite unattractively the duration of the flight. Upon landing in Charlotte, I was met with similar choices, and again, I opted to sit at a bar. As I drank my water, the guy beside me asked where I was flying, a very non-threatening question at an airport. One cannot judge creeps as quickly in an airport, as everyone is by themselves, and who am I to blame another for craving interaction. I am not opposed to conversation, and I had just overheard him order a sandwich, so we spoke. When his meal was delivered, I expressed my intense craving for fries; he obviously could not resist my starving eyes and gave me a handful. I rewarded him with continued conversation.

The last leg of my journey had finally arrived, and at twelve thirty, we landed in Charlottesville. Of course, I still had to catch a cab ride home, during which the driver and I chatted about his daughter, grandchildren, and years on the job. He told me I was lovely, and I think I made his night, but probably more because I was his only customer and paid sixty five dollars as he took the longest way possible to my house.

As for me, although it cost four hundred dollars for the ticket, twenty dollars for airport alcohol, six dollars for the bag of trail mix, fifty dollars to check my bags, and sixty five dollars for a ride home, I did get a free CD and a handful of french fries. Perhaps flying is not so bad, after all.