After a recent flight out of O’Hare, I have vowed to be kinder to anyone I catch snoring in public. You just never know where they’re coming from.
The flight was my first in ages. I had developed severe claustrophobia, and the mere thought of cramming myself into an oblong metal object for even minutes was enough to make me start tearing at my clothes (which made for interesting party conversations). But family matters called, and so I was off to the airport, with doctor-prescribed relaxants in tow.
I boarded the plane a half-hour after downing a pill, calmly settled into my seat and listened to the takeoff instructions. It occurred to me that I didn’t feel a thing out of the ordinary. No buzz, no euphoric rush, no groovy mellow meltdown . . . the drug was useless. Still, I had gotten over my claustrophobia. Cool.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone snoring loudly. I looked to the left, then to the right, and saw no culprit. I tilted back my head–which felt pleasantly heavy–and peered between the seats at the guy behind me. No snorer there. But the noise droned on, loud as a buzz saw.
Then it hit me. The snoring was coming from me.
Good drugs, I decided, and went out like a light until touchdown in Arkansas two hours later.
