Seven

I can’t believe I got so worked up over this.

This contradicts every single movie I have ever seen. I’m not saying that I think life is (or should be) like it is in the movies. I just didn’t really have anything to go off of, except, you know, the Hollywood version.

I mean, isn’t there supposed to be some obese guy sleeping on my shoulder? Some screaming kid kicking the back of my seat? Isn’t the flight attendant supposed to be a total bitch with way too much cleavage to be real?

The worst part of this flight is where it leads. Not that I don’t like Mexico; I think it’s cool. No, this flight leads to yet another “vacation” filled with family fun and important learning opportunities. Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful and lucky to be able to travel the continent every summer and see all the important landmarks, national parks, and whatnot.

But if there’s any potential fun in any place we ever go, my family makes sure we stay as far away from it as possible. And I mean real fun. Not fishing at dawn in the murky lake by our cabin up north for seven days straight, not hiking up a mountain in the freezing cold making sure to leave all the other tourists in our dust, not looking at a huge tree saying “wow” then driving another three hours so we can see another tree that looks exactly the same and say “wow” again.

I’m talking about real, laughter inducing, pulse quickening fun.
And I was even foolish enough to think that this trip would be different. Mexico, beautiful beaches, cute boys, drinks with umbrellas…

It all seems so far away now, that thought, even though we’re getting closer to Mexico by the minute. But of course this trip will be just the same as all the others. It doesn’t matter the environment, my mother will find a way to drain the fun out of this week so much that there won’t be any left for our fellow vacationers.

I thought at least the plane ride would be exciting. Sure, a kid kicking the back of my seat for three hours isn’t the ideal image of fun, but at least it’s something. At least it’s not boring. Boring sucks.

The airplane food isn’t even bad, it’s just average. Boring. There’s no screaming babies, drooling fat men, hyperventilating airplane-aphobes, nada. Just the whir of the plane and the cool air from the air vent blowing softly in my face. I wonder: did my mom call ahead and tell them that there is to be no excitement, nothing out of the ordinary, and absolutely no fun?

I bet she did.

No, I’m not kidding. That is totally something my mom would do. She can kick some major phone ass. Sure, she doesn’t know how to work her voicemail or send a text, but when she’s on the phone she has the power and people listen to her. I wonder how she does it. And why I can’t to it.

Aren’t you supposed to inherit stuff from your parents? That’s what they teach in school, but I’m not sure if it’s entirely true. Where’s the proof? For me, at least.

Mom can be described in one saying: my way or the highway.

Dad can be described in one question: where’s my planner?

I, on the other hand, cannot be described in anything. Last year when I was a junior in high school, we had to do symbolism projects in my Lit class. We had to use symbolism to describe who we are.

I tried.

Really, I did. And I can’t blame it on not being creative because I’m not, not creative. I’m just average. In everything. Average student, average employee, average average average. Brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin. And no, my dark hair does not complement my light skin and make me look like I’m glowing. It just makes me look pale.

“Violet, sit up straight.”

Yes, mother.

I sit up and gaze out the window. Isn’t there an emergency exit somewhere in here?

What if I just jumped? Felt the sweet, sweet wind in my hair, my lungs. Fell through the puffy clouds, tasting their sugary, cotton candy fluff? What if?

Well, I would die. And clouds don’t taste like cotton candy.
Am I really that pathetic?

Don’t answer that.

“Do you want some gum, honey? We’re landing soon,” my mom asks as she blows a bubble. Noah, my little brother, reaches over and tries to pop it with his grubby finger, but it doesn’t pop. So he just keeps poking, poking, poking, until half the gum is on his finger and the other half is on Mom’s face. She takes a wipe from her huge designer bag and cleans up the damage, never once taking her expectant gaze off of me.

“I’m good,” I say, trying not to cringe.

Looking for any kind of distraction, I turn away from them and catch part of the conversation passing between the couple in front of me. I can’t really see them, but I know it’s a man and a woman. The man seems to be panicking about the plane landing. I can hear his breathing, and I can tell that he’s tapping his foot or something, because the back of his seat is moving the way things move when you do that.

The guy is talking so fast, I can’t understand a word he’s saying. But then the woman’s voice rings out, loud and clear. “Don’t doubt yourself, dear. Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.”

I don’t know if it’s the actual words, or the way she said them. But soon I can no longer hear the guy’s shallow breathing and his chair stops bobbing back and forth. Through the crack between their seats, I see him grab the lady’s hand and squeeze.