Armpit Hair, Don’t Care.

ARMPIT HAIR, DON’T CARE.

Airplanes are weird. They have a way of making an otherwise un-awkward situation seem extra awkward. Think about it. When you are going to a sporting event or any other predetermined seating arrangement, you simply find your seat and get there. Conversations continue and previously seated people are busy doing something else or looking at something else. Airplanes are totally different. It is like each person who walks on has a zillion sets of eyes staring at them, judging them, analyzing their next rookie traveler move…. Why is this? I hate it. I hate boarding. I hate walking down the aisle. Why is everything so stinking quiet? Why is everyone frowning?

Anyway, that was simply a side note to take me to where I was really going and that was to a train. I was in Orlando recently. For those who know airports, you know they have that snazzy white train that takes you from the terminal to baggage claim and ground transportation.  As normal, I boarded said train. I sneak my way to the center of the car in the back away from the door and properly position my legs in a way that I can secure my backpack-wearing self without touching the gross support rails. Just as I get settled, I look up to see the others on board with me.

Thankfully I was able to catch a photo of this situation because otherwise, you would think I was making it up. Approximately eight feet away from me, a man loads onto the train. He is wearing sneakers, jewelry, headphones like a seasoned traveler, a pair of jeans and a backpack. That’s it. What is missing? The dude was not wearing a shirt; fully clothed sans shirt (insert purposeful pause here to take in this situation).

What I found most perplexing about this situation were the people around him/me. No one seemed to think twice. He certainly didn’t. He was chatting with all of the people around him as a man WITH a shirt on would do.

Let’s analyze the photo….

  1. The Guy himself. He totally owns his look. Full confidence, crossed legs, shoulders high, standing square in the middle of the entry way.
  2. The TSA guard outside of the door. Is he acting like he doesn’t see it? Is he wondering if there is a rule against it? Is he intentionally not looking? Who knows, but I knew he was my best chance at rectifying the situation.
  3. The guy in the red shoes HAS to be his bud. They were chatting it up, but in a way I would chat with my workmates on a train. Not in a “dude, you should consider wearing a shirt to the airport” kind of way. Can you imagine sitting next to this guy on the plane?
  4. The two fellas chatting behind him, one of which is wearing what appears to be an Employee Self Service and Supply Chain T-shirt (Looking back at the photo now, I kinda wish I had addressed that on this commute), and the other fella tenaciously gripping the germ-laden rubber handle. How are they not looking at the guy? Why am I the only one who found this event to be odd?
  5. Last but not least, the two strangers who are standing next to him and virtually under his uncovered armpit. What are you thinking? Why not scoot over? How are you not catching me taking a photo of this event?

Anyway, the more I analyze this photo, the more I realize that maybe I am the crazy one. After all, no one else in the photo seems to be phased by the event at hand. For me, it was a blogable.

Safe Travels My Friends and ALWAYS CLEAN YOUR TRAY TABLES!

Armpit Hair, Don't Care

 

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Life at 30,000 Feet

For a decade, I lived in a world surrounded with pubescent children with intense behavioral disorders. What I didn’t realize is how consistent my days were. Sure, each day came with new meltdowns, new interventions, new moods, and new celebrations, but for the most part, it was consistent. I knew where my classroom was. I knew who was next door. I knew my kids and their parents. I knew their disorders, their favorite foods, their triggers, and I knew all of the people I would interact with on a daily basis. I lived in a world that I thought was wildly inconsistent, but then I started a job where I travel for a large portion of my time.

I know what you are thinking- you live the coolest life! You go to New York, Seattle, San Francisco, Dallas and Chicago to name a few. You are right, to an extent. I live an amazing life. The reality of it is a bit different. I do go to these towns; however, it is typically a flight to said “cool” city, an Uber ride to the closest Marriott, a few hours of sleep in a white sheet laden bed shared by humans from all over the globe (gross),  only to wake up and Uber to a corporate office nearby and then scurry out to a flight that I nearly miss to get home and hug my munchkins one hour earlier.

Now please don’t get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE MY JOB. If you don’t know this, you don’t know me, but I want this blog to serve a few purposes:

  1. To make people laugh.
  2. To document the interesting people and things we experience as traveling business men and women.
  3. To keep me grounded when I am normally 30,000 feet about the ground.

When I think about my working days, the photos and stories I send my friends, the people I meet that leave me looking like the little emoji guy scratching his chin, I realized, it was time to start a blog. That being said, www.dirtytraytables.com was born.

This blog will serve as a place to share stories about the interesting world we live in via Uber, airplanes, subways, hotels, etc.  Be forewarned, my postings will be inconsistent (I’ll blame the sales cycle). It will be stories, one-liners, emotional rants and more.

Safe Travels My Friends and ALWAYS CLEAN YOUR TRAY TABLES!

Backpack Survival

I pride myself on my backpack. I think it has the necessary components to survival- seriously, I do. I am; however, on a constant search for a new backpack that doesn’t ruin my dresses, but for now I will survive out of my Workday Patagonia and use it as an excuse to constantly buy new threads.

I am “That Girl”. The one who brings a back pack into bars, restaurants and grocery stores even on the weekend (facepalm). It is my little home in a bag. As hard as it is to admit, I got out-backpacked last week. For those who know me, this is a hard pill to swallow.

Let me explain. First off, I sat down on my flight, and immediately my seatmate pulled out a honey cough drop from his backpack. It’s a funny thing to love, but I love honey cough drops. “Cough drop?” he asked. +1 for the middle-seater. The ordinary runway take off delayers took place…. 30 minutes later we still sat there. This was a week where I had come off of 2 weeks home with my daughters (spoiled), to a crazy multi-city week.

There I sat, too much time on my hands without wifi, too many sappy songs on JJ Grey and Mofro Spotify, and without control, I started to cry. I tried to force myself to stop, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t particularly sad…well yes I was, but not ‘cry in public sad.’ I couldn’t stop. Instantly, I became the subject of my own blog. “Dear Diary, Today I sat by  a fairly normally looking blonde chick who couldn’t stop crying….” Sheesh! Get it together MER!

Anyway, Backpack Guy (that’s what we will call him) reluctantly slides a travel pack of tissues from his backpack over to my tray table. Embarrassingly, I accepted, and as soon as I got my emotional self together, I inhaled my snot and said “thank you and I am sorry.”  Back to his backpack he went. “Buffalo Jerky?” he asked as he offered me some luxurious jerky from a vacuum-sealed pack guaranteed to taste delicious and make everyone around you think you tooted all at once. Over my tray table of tears, I accepted and finally started to get myself together. I looked at my seatmate, and I said “Thank you. Thank you for giving me good things from tissues to cough drops to jerky. Thank you for not judging me. Thank you for not jamming ear buds into your ear when I started to cry.”

After I got myself together, I started to admire my seatmate. He had a damn solid backpack filled with contents I did not have in my backpack- contents necessary for survival. I turned to Backpack Guy, and I said “I will trade you straight up ….my backpack for yours…no sneak peeks.” To no surprise, my offer was rejected.

As we began to descend, when my crazy ass finally pulled it together, Backpack Guy said, “I won’t trade backpacks, but I do have something you need.” He then gave me a “pen” also known as a heavy death weapon that consistently makes it through security. Sure, it writes, but if I were to write with it in a meeting, I feel certain my peers and prospects alike would be terrified of me. He continued by giving me a demo on “How to Use Said Pen”. I feel honored and terrified all at once. Cheers to “Backpack Guy”!

pen plane