42C

We have a theory about planes, and it's not the one about everytime we step on one we think it's doomed to disappear into the Atlantic. Or Pacific. Or Idaho.

It's about sitting near the wings.

See, when we booked our trip to Deutschland four months ago, we thought long and hard about where to sit. Can we fly the plane? No. Huh. Can we kick it first class? Not yet. Can we sit *in* the aisle? Perhaps but probably maybe not.

(Now, the night before we came home, we dreamt that we did. All we had to do was hug the seat beside us and everything was just peachy).

But we digress.

We could sit *on* the aisle, and near a wing. We decided this because of one simple reason: if the wing started to break apart, we could push the fat lady next to us out of the way, gently relocate her *hot* German daughter, punch our way through the window, and start flapping.

Flapping.

Our big theory was if the plane were to crash, we would keep it alive, single-handedly, with our dainty flapping can't-straighten-anyway arms. Brilliant.

Or we could take a half a Xanax, drink a beer and watch a God awful movie.

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Currently listening to: Nirvana's Rape Me demo.