Margot: Amelia is a swallow or two from being completely wasted. Other than that, this weekend is going to be AMAZING. Get here safe. And stop fretting—I can feel you fretting from here.
I smile, nearly typing back:
“Not fretting. Definitely not thinking about the news Mom shared or that, after the world’s longest job search, I can finally begin my new position in just days.
Or the fact that, not counting my now ex-husband Thomas, I haven't had a real relationship in twelve years.
Or that I'm thirty-seven and still don't know what I'm doing with my life. Totally fine. See you soon.”
I delete it and try again.
ME: I’m good. Love you both. Tell Amelia I'm bringing the champagne.
My phone dies before I can hit send. Groaning, I shove it in my jeans pocket, becoming acutely aware that the coffee I chugged at JFK—the largest size available, consumed in eight frantic minutes while sprinting to my gate—is really starting to make itself known.
I really, really need to pee.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and attempt to stand.
Except…Manspreader has fallen asleep with his leg angled directly into my exit path.
I try to angle around him, executing what can only be described as an awkward limbo move, when Cheeto Lady suddenly sneezes, and a cloud of orange dust explodes into my face.
"Bless you," I manage, blinking through Cheeto debris.
"Sorry!" she says, immediately cramming another handful into her mouth.
I finally escape into the aisle and make my way toward the back of the plane, where a line of what feels like seventy people are queued for the single working bathroom.
At the front of the line stands a family of four. A family who has apparently decided that bathroom time is a group activity.
"Mommy, I don't have to go anymore!" a small voice announces from inside.
"Well, you're going to try," the mother responds firmly.
I shift my weight from foot to foot. The coffee is not playing games.
"Excuse me," I say to the father, who's blocking the aisle while scrolling on his phone. "How long do you think?—"
"Kids," he says, not looking up. "You know how it is."
I do not know how it is. Because in the five years that I actually was married, kids weren’t even a discussion—and it’s a good thing they weren’t.
But what I do have is a bladder that's about to stage a mutiny and zero patience for whatever parenting philosophy involves occupying an airplane bathroom for—I check my watch—nine minutes and counting.
Five more minutes pass.
Seven.
The "I need to pee" sensation has graduated from "uncomfortable" to "this is a legitimate medical emergency."
Behind me, an elderly man clears his throat. "I've been waiting for twenty minutes," he says quietly.
Twenty minutes. This family has been in there for TWENTY MINUTES.
I glance toward the front of the plane.
First class. Where there's definitely another bathroom.
