The Accidental Affair

It’s day 342 of my captivity. Rations are dwindling. Existence is bleak. Resistance is futile. My captors are ruthless and relentless.

Okay, it’s only been a week. And my captors are actually the hubby’s company. It only feels like 342 days (which makes me wonder if, when we reach day 342, it will feel like day 16,706?). So I’m a tad melodramatic. Sue me. While you’re at the frivolous lawsuits, you might also take into account that I’m also a tad overweight (nice segue there, right?). I don’t mean that I need Richard Simmons/Montel/Oprah to come and forklift me out of bed. I’ve just got some junk in my trunk. Therefore, I shouldn’t, necessarily, need to buy two seats on an airplane. Though, at this point, I’m thinking it would be a good practice, to avoid the following:

I’m currently on a plane. A 35 minute flight from Guernsey to London. There is no Business class. There is no First class. It’s just 200 of my closest seatmates and me. All wedged in like sardines.

I’ve got a guy to the right of me, whom I’m calling Mr. Banker, and he’s quietly drawing my attention to the fact that I’m overweight. See, I’ve got a bulge. A bit of a paunch that overflows unflatteringly over my jeans when I’m seated. Even when I was at my skinniest (read: unmarried, coked out and eternally drunk) I still had that bulge. But, Mr. Banker has decided that not only should he take up his entire seat but, to be the most comfortable that he can be, he’s spilling over into my seat. In fact, at this moment, he’s got his elbow wedged deep into my bulge. Making me hyperaware of its existence.

You see, I’m becoming quite intimate with Mr. Banker (before you scream that I’m some adulterer, I’ve got the hubby to my left, who’s almost as intimate with me (currently) as Mr. Banker – yes, we’ve got a nice little threesome going, thereby ensuring our chairs as co-VPs of the Mile High Club!). So much so that I know he’s a banker, because as we’ve been cuddling, we’ve also been reading his work briefs. They are fascinating. Really. Fortunately, about ten minutes into the flight, he put aside these briefs and busted out his OK! Magazine. Okay, I’m a little in love with Mr. Banker right now, elbow notwithstanding. (OK! Magazine is as trashy as People Magazine. Maybe even a bit more so. Sigh!). So, we’re snuggling, reading his trashy magazine (he lingers on a short article about Pamela Anderson), and the flight’s about to end. I know because a baby’s ears are popping and he’s screaming his head off behind me. Actually, I feel my ears, too. So, a bit of sympathy for the tyke.

Why won’t Mr. Banker turn the goddamned page???

Five minutes till we land. And we’re STILL on Pammy. Am I not good enough for Mr. Banker? Must he insult me, his newfound lover, by jutting his elbow into my fat whilst staring at Pam’s breasts?

While I’m getting my freak on with Mr. Banker, the husband’s blissfully unaware, engrossed in Freakonomics. Which is a book I bought for myself, and would be reading right now, if he hadn’t commandeered it for himself. Which leaves me with no option in this 35 minutes but to employ my new boy toy (sadly, friends, this flight does not end in orgasm – mine, nor Mr. Banker’s, nor the hubby's).

So, I’m stuck on this fucking page with Mr. Banker. Until finally, thankfully, amazingly, Mr. Banker realizes I’m reading, too and he busts out his briefs again (the banking briefs, not his undies, pervs).

With four minutes left on this flight, and my two orgy partners otherwise engaged, I bust out a vomit bag and compose this entry. Somehow it seemed fitting as clearly I need to develop anorexia and/or bulimia to avoid accidental affairs with the Mr. Bankers of this world.