I admit that I’m spoiled when it comes to transportation.
I am pretty sure that since I started dating Drew, I haven’t touched a car door handle. Doors just seem to open, magically, for me. I am whisked all over in his hybrid car with the freedom to play on my phone, check my email and text to my heart’s content. Since I’m the passenger, I also get to pick the radio station. (Those are the rules.) That means the station is planted firmly on satellite radio’s ’90s station, always. I hear The Cranberries more now than I did during the entire decade they were popular.
On long car trips, my bare feet are planted on the dashboard, novel or a heated game of Angry Birds in hand. Either that, or I’m snoring. On nearly every car trip we’ve taken, Drew has done the bulk of the driving because I sleep as soon as the car is in motion. In fact, when I was a child, all my parents needed to do was drive me around the block and I was in a tiny, baby coma.
I can fall asleep on the drive to the grocery store. I have slept though take-offs and landings on a plane and woken up with a river of drool on my chin. It is no wonder that every time I pass out on a long trip, Drew seizes the opportunity to snap a picture and post it on Instagram. (He’s allowed. Those are the rules.)
When traveling with Drew via airplane, my spoiled-ness reaches new heights. Neither of us are tiny people by any stretch, but since I sleep on airplanes and Drew does not, I get the window seat. Every time. And every time, Drew wedges himself in the middle seat between his sleeping, drooling fiance and some rancher from El Paso, Texas, in a cowboy hat. (Howdy, sir. I’ll be resting the entire right side of my body next to yours for the following three hours.)