Tiny Yogurts

24 Sep

tiny yogurt pic

When I fly, I am enticed by the most seemingly insignificant things. I behave in ways I never would outside of an aircraft.

Airplane food is terrible. Everyone knows this. And yet, every time I fly, the question of whether or not I should eat my airplane food is a painstaking one.

When in your everyday life would you be enticed by a tiny yogurt and an even tinier spoon? Probably never. (Unless you’re a mouse. In which case, get the hell off my blog, I hate you.)

On my flight to France, we ate dinner at around 9pm (free wine!). Afterward, since I had an entire row to myself, I wrapped my zebra print neck pillow around my neck, created a pillow fortress with the entire row’s worth of pillows, and passed out for a good chunk of time.

About two hours later, I thought I heard someone say, “Coffee? Tea? Breakfast?” It was most likely a flight attendant. Although I guess it just could have been a really hospitable passenger. Or a tiny breakfast angel. But it was more likely the same flight attendant who’d asked me what I wanted to drink at the beginning of the flight, but whom I hadn’t heard, and who’d opted to repeat the question like, “WHAT. WOULD. YOU. LIKE. TO. DRINK.”

Ugh, I thought. I’m not even hungry. When did we eat, like, two hours ago? And I don’t want to upset that flight attendant again. I’ll just pass on breakfast, I think.  

Let’s just take a pause. The only times I ever pass on food are if I’m violently sick or if I’m wearing sunglasses and the food is unfortunately located in my blind spot and I just don’t see it. Those are the only times.

I wasn’t sure what I was doing. This was totally new territory. I felt afraid, but I let myself keep resting.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a breakfast box on the aisle seat’s tray. The flight attendant had left me breakfast! How kind.

But I wasn’t hungry…who’s hungry at 3am after having eaten dinner a few hours before? Who wants breakfast that early? Not me…no…I wasn’t hungry…I couldn’t have stomached it…I’m just a tiny, frail creature…like a deer or a stunted pony…I didn’t need it…I’d already brought the gavel down on that shit.

But this wasn’t the Supreme Court of breakfast decisions – decisions could be overturned. What would the harm be in simply reassessing the situation?

I held my hand out to the box like you’d hold a hand out to a stray llama. I wanted the box to know I was there, but I didn’t want to startle it or make direct contact. We were just feeling each other out. Assessing the vibe of the situation.

I slowly reached my hand forward, and put a single finger on the breakfast box. I dragged it toward my line of vision, and read its label.

“Start your morning off right with a continental breakfast!” it said.

It was so chipper and optimistic. Maybe it was right? Maybe I should start my morning off right? It was technically morning. The sun was out. Who knew what would happen if I didn’t heed its advice. It was clearly the expert in its field.

I started to unwrap the box’s contents.

Ah, I observed. A yogurt. What a pleasant, approachable looking yogurt.

Before I could stop myself, I began unwrapping the spoon. I lifted the yogurt’s foil lid, and felt the unmistakable rush of creamed dairy exploding onto my shirt.

Ah, to Hell with this shirt, it never stood a chance!

I pressed onward.

It tasted good. So good. My mouth felt like it was running through a strawberry field that was covered in milk. (The experience gave new meaning to the expression, “Running your mouth off.”)

What was that I spied in the corner of the box? Could it be, granola? No, I didn’t need granola. That would be excessive! Taking that granola would mean moving from the safety of “casual snack” territory to the big world of “conscience breakfast.” No, I didn’t want that flaky, crunch texture to complement my strawberry-milk field. I wasn’t even hungry.

Oh, but I did! I tore the package open like it was a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, and I watched as the granola fell – in slow motion, amazingly enough – into my yogurt.

Was this true bliss? Had I just unlocked the key to eternal happiness? Would it possible to feel happier than this?

That’s when I spotted the blueberry muffin top. It sat in its own little compartment, like the Queen of the continental breakfast box. La pièce de resistance, if you will.

So this was the pinnacle of my journey. All of my angst and denial had led me to this. What would I do? What should I do? Would I be able to live with my actions?

And then, I blinked, and the muffin top was gone. I can’t say I know where it went. But it’s definitely in a better place, now.

This is what flying does to me.


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