I hate when I fly on airlines that make you share a can of soda or juice. Some airlines don’t practice this. Some give you the whole can and let you figure things out for yourself. And I don’t hate sharing because I’m a sloth and just absolutely need a full twelve ounces of brown sugary goodness but because sharing completely ruins my choosing process. You see when the airline beverage service practices the sharing method I always have to, for some insane reason, choose whichever beverage the flight attendant has already opened. Sometimes the outcome is inconsequential, other times however, tragic.

I sit and wait for the flight attendant to get to me, readying myself to order—something I must do for the ordering of all things in life. I think about how amazing it is when people order so fast at fast food places and even more blown away at sit down restuarants. The worst are those with the huge colored menus like Denny’s. I've never in my life ordered anything I've actually wanted at Denny’s. Let me correct myself. I wanted it for about two seconds of my life at the exact time it was my turn to blurt out my order to the gay struggling actor with slicked back hair and trembling hands. I want to tell him not to worry, that I'm much more nervous about my ordering than he could ever be. So I order and seconds later I'm distraught with the knowledge that I had absolutely no intention of ordering blueberry stuffed pancakes with whip cream and a side of sausage. All I really wanted was a Super Bird with regular fries.

The emotions are hard to explain. Immediately after ordering the terrible meal I now have to eat I'm usually confused and slightly pissed at myself. So I sit there drinking the strawberry milk shake I somehow ordered earlier and try to piece everything back together like a forensic analyst on CSI (preferably Miami for I've always been intrigued by the idea of sex on a gurney with a Cuban co-worker, stressed and sweaty and emotional after another case we broke as wide open as her long thick trunks before me.)   

After the self-analysis I look to my friends shaking their heads in disbelief and laughing at my undiagnosed medical condition. I try not to feel bad for they'd laugh at me the same way if I had just found out I had AIDS but it’s hard not to. How does this keep happening I wonder? Ordering anxiety is ruining my palate and I fear I’ll never be able to eat out again lest it be at a place where I have absolutely no options; and not only when it comes to the meal but for any beverage or condiment or table setting. For even on those joyous occasions in which I've magically succeeded in ordering my meal, I fail miserably with the dipping accessory. Should I choose artichoke-mayo or sweet and zesty BBQ, Chipotle Creole or bacon cucumber ranch? I can never get it right so I always end up ordering the worst sounding one— the one they have vats of in the basement. Can't get rid of a dipping sauce? Don't worry, the idiot in the Michael Jordan jersey and red beard can't help but order it.

What's worse are the rare occasions, and I mean rare, that I not only order the correct meal but also the correct accessorizing dipper and then allow the waiter to take away my food before I'm done. This might not make any sense to you readers but there's just something about a waiter/waitress reaching for your plate and asking if you're done that I can't deny. I'm by no means done, in fact I've been enjoying the absolute hell out of those fried pickle chip what-have-yous and have every intention of polishing them all off, but once I see that forearm reaching in, my senses collapse and I'm no longer a functioning human being. And it happens with everything else as well.

"Are you done with the honey mustard?"

"Yes," I thank them as I watch a hand take the flavorful savior of my dry French fries away; leaving me to my mocking friends knowing full well I wasn’t done. My girlfriend now has to stand up for me when we go out and she notices the previously mentioned events begin to unfold.

A hand reaches in to grab the bread I was just recently using to dip in my pasta sauce and which I’m most definitely going to allow until she speaks up.

"We're actually not quite done with that," she'll say courteously.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the waiter will respond without a second thought. I'm embarrassed and my girlfriend shakes her head in disgrace at me, as if I had just lost my testicles to a cat. I then finish my meal in shame. How she still has sex with me is unknown but I'm assuming she's picturing me as the waiter and not the prescription symptom poster boy that I am— though I take none. I've only taken Adderall once and it was because of some really effective peer pressure.

A friend of mine was convinced he wanted to stay up all night and ironically "bro it up".  Meaning, talk philosophically about nonsense as if we were in high school again and camping around an inspiring fire. So I popped the pill for his sake and I'm sure equally as much, my own, and we continued to drink and stay up all night. I don't know if it was the pill or just the enthusiasm but I guess my one pill popping experience went quite well, but other than that and a lot of booze and occasional bowl, I'm quite clean. Prescriptions scare me so I have never wanted nor plan on consulting a physician about my insanity when dealing with the labor force. I'm sure its just psychological guilt for having a cushy job I complain about all too often.  

I've quit entirely on allowing hotel cleaning ladies in my room. I leave the private sign out at all times no matter how long I'm gone or the impossibility of me running into them. I've run out of soap and towels and dried off with dirty clothes. I’ve used conditioner to wash my face, causing me to break out like my former 16-year-old self and I’m sure I’ll do it again. On another occasion I woke up and realized I had pissed myself because I had obviously drank way too much the night before and didn't have the mental capacity or bodily strength the get up and use the toilet— I fear I have a swollen prostate at 26— and I slept on the floor the rest of my stay. Anything so as not to deal with the staff, and now, sitting thirty thousand feet in the sky, I wait once again in fear.
I won't mind so much if the person I end up sharing a can with decides on a lighter drink. Sprite or ginger ale would be perfect. Even some sugar filled ten percent juice blend might be acceptable. I'd rather not have a Coke for I have a theory that Coke gives you kidney stones but again, in the end I'd take it.

A striking blond woman with the longest calves I've ever seen sits one row up and over on the aisle. She tends to flex her calves every time I'm staring too long and I tell myself that she's doing this little dance for me personally, but I'm sure it’s no more than an involuntary spasm. Needless to say it has me on edge and I can't help but yearn to share much more than a half a can of Sprite with her. I feel sorry for the woman next to me whose elbow I've been massaging with my own as I watch the blonde take off her heels and flex her toes to points. But if the lady whose elbow I’m rubbing is anything like me she’ll stay quiet and sit uncomfortably for the duration of the flight. Uncomfortable till she can de-board and forget the nightmare of sitting next to me for three and a half hours. I'm a terrible human but I can do little about it or feel much guilt for I'm just as uncomfortable with my boner that won't recede no matter the amount of golf I think about.

The flight attendant is closer now. The blonde disappears from site as the Reagan era metal cart rolls to a stop next to me. I monitor the drink ordering developments.  A ginger ale is ordered but soon after a second is too. Then a Sprite and immediately after another. When an alcoholic drink is ordered to finish off the row before me I begin to think I just might get lucky enough to start a whole new order. An order where I'm free to do as I please. Free to believe in airline beverage service once again. Free to be happy and whole.

But what's this? What dastardly ruse is being attempted? A short white woman with an over bite and twine like yellow hair pulls on the young flight attendant’s sleeve. She is sitting on the aisle in the seat in front of me. When I saw her boarding I prayed she’d not be next to me. Too soon had I celebrated it seems for even if we're not sharing elbow and vent space she looks to thwart my convenience anyway. I'm superficial and this is the punishment.

I can’t hear a word their saying, probably a foreign dialect.  My luck has afforded me the only Farsi speaking domestic flight attendant on Spirit Airlines. The twine haired lady then lifts a full plastic cup in the air and the flight attendant takes it and throws it in her wastebasket. It’s clear golden goodness. My dream has been thrown to the bottom of an unforgiving wastebasket and an even more unforgiving trash sucking tube when we land. It’s heartbreaking and nerve wrecking all at once. Hopes and dreams can sometimes be that way I'm realizing.

Now nightmares of the Freddy Krueger and zombie variety are one thing. Nightmares of the cancer and brain hemorrhage and children variety are a whole other.  And then there are the ones you never quite think about. Ones that are so far out there that allowing yourself to think about them happening to you would drive you insane with fear. The kind of stuff you read about in Time magazine accompanied by some useless pie charts and graphs with unremarkable photos and captions. "It'll never happen to me,” we say as we flip the page. Well I now wish I had read that pie chart about one such nightmare with the survival rate measured in tens because one such nightmare has just happened to me.

The flight attendant nods with a smile as the foreign woman finishes ordering her second selection. The flight attendant then reaches into the mini-rolling fridge and pulls out a can of something red. A can, which dashes all hopes humanity can ever really be good. That poverty can ever truly end. That peace can ever reign supreme and global warming is a mere history lesson rather than our demise. She reaches in and pulls out a can of V8.

Immediately my blood leaves my body, though magically my boner veering down the right pant leg holds fast, and I sit in disgust of life. The V8 cracks over the cylinder like ice cubes and I watch in horror as the thick vitamin filled fluid flows slowly into the clear plastic cup creases. The flight attendant hands it back to the lady and gives her a wink. No Farsi is spoken and I’m at a loss for my own terrible luck. The flight attendant, a tall, broad shouldered woman with huge white teeth looks over to me. She looks like Geena Davis as Commander in Chief. Enormous and intimidating. Hands the size of baseball mitts and hair unwavering.

“And what for you sir?”

Now’s my chance. Now’s my chance to re-write history. Re-write all the wrongs that so many have done in this world. Save a child. Rescue a golden retriever from a burning building. Carry groceries for an old lady, not the maniac with the twine hair in front of me of course, but any other old ladies out there.  

Geena Davis looks frustrated.

“What can I get you sir?”

She hands me a mini napkin like a threat. Order now or I’ll break your kneecaps and nose. I have a big nose; another blow to it could be disastrous. I can see the red V8 can atop the cart, her giant left hand is resting around its base. I can feel the eyes of the lady whose elbow I’ve been massaging like a bar of soap and beyond her the balding fat guy, who has magically woke up, is even growing impatient. I’m sweating and can’t figure out a single word to say. Screw it idiot. You moron. Just order the damn V8 for anything’s better than this nonsense. Anything’s better than this trial.

“Nothing then?”

What’s this? I think as her giant right hand reaches past and gives another tiny napkin to the lady next to me. “What about you, maam?” Geena’s voice bellows.

“I’ll take a Coke,” the lady responds and Geena smiles back as her baseball mitt reaches past the can of V8 and pulls out a new can.

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