Page 93 of Man Flu

Me: I have a car scheduled, but thank you for the offer.

Rick: Anytime.

I put my phone away and lean my head back into the hard cushion that’s a little high for my head, leaving my neck craned in an awkward position. I’m not going to be able to fall asleep like this, and I just want the flight to go by quickly. Instead, I place my elbow down on the armrest nearest to the aisle and rest my head on my hand.

I’m able to fall into a semi-restful place, but it seems like only a few minutes pass when I’m nearly knocked unconscious by a food cart. “Oh my goodness, I’m so, so sorry. Are you okay, ma’am?”

The flight attendant, who oddly looks like Brielle, kneels beside me and places her hand on my knee. “Can I get you some ice?”

I don’t know if I’m out of it because I was asleep, or if my head got hit that hard. “Yeah, and maybe some vodka and orange juice too.”

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” the woman says.

“Please?” I beg.

“Is that your friend?” she asks, pointing to Brielle.

“My colleague,” I reply.

The flight attendant leans over and taps Brielle on the shoulder, waking her up too. Brielle peels her headphones off her head and rubs her eyes. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

“Um, I’m afraid we just knocked your colleague’s head pretty hard with the food cart. I’m going to get her some ice, but she’s asking for vodka too.”

“I’m not her mom,” Brielle says. “Although, she’s old enough to be my mom.”

“What? No, I’m not!” I scold her. “Women can’t have babies at seven, Brielle.”

The flight attendant folds her fist over her mouth. “I’ll be right back with the vodka,” she says.

Finally, someone who understands me.

“Sorry, I guess I had the math wrong on that one,” Brielle says.

“Just a little,” I tell her, with a look that makes it clear she is never to announce that again.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“No, not really.”

“Where did it hit you?”

“It’s fine,” I tell her.

“Let me see. I’ll check for a bump.”

“Really, it’s fine.”

The flight attendant returns with an ice pack, a cup of orange juice, and a tiny shot bottle filled with vodka. “Thank you.”

“It’s on the house,” she says.

Uh, yeah, I’d say that should be a given. Not worth it.

I down the shot and lean my head back to try and sleep off the rest of the trip. The vodka does its job, and my eyes pop back open as we touch down on the runway. Thank goodness.

“I want to go back to Florida,” Brielle whines.

“Maybe you should just move there? You’re still free as a bird. Do what you want with your life … whatever is going to make you happy.”