Thursday, May 07, 2015

Seat 21D

I'm sitting in the exit row of a flight from Dallas-Fort Worth to St. Louis; extra leg room is a small perk of traveling so much that the fun is completely gone. Above me in the overhead bin is a mini cooler bag tucked into my carry on. It has two days worth of menopur vials, a follistim pen, and handful of syringes, and other really fun stuff.

Two rows behind me is a pregnant woman with a toddler already in tow. Across the aisle from her, a woman sits with a very unhappy newborn. I'm pretty sure I can smell baby from here. I can certainly hear them. And every few seconds someone in front of me turns around to give the mother of which ever one is currently crying an evil stare. I'm the only woman between these men and the babies, so they look at me first to determine if I'm the woman ruining their tin can rocket ride with my spawn.


I'm trapped in a flying metal tube less than 10 feet from an emotional trigger extravaganza and I want to scream, "it's not me assholes! I just LOOK like I've had a baby from stimming and eating my feelings!"

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