I am determined to see if it’s possible to blog while flying in economy class. It appears to be doable, at least now that I’ve started.
But it’s a terrible testament to the incredible shrinking act that is airline seating.
Already, I’m feeling the strain of keeping my elbows from inappropriately invading the space of the passenger seated next to me. I consider myself a considerate person, but I’m really not responsible should I feel compelled to jerk my hands in protest of their contorted typing.
We’re still sitting on the tarmac. I can hardly wait until we are about to take off. The flight is scheduled to last two hours. Between the plantar fasciitis I flared up this morning on a run (gorgeous sunrise made the pain I’m experiencing now totally worth it) and the cramping that is turning my hands into claws, I don’t see any way in hell I’m still typing this when the plane lands. Must. Finish. This. Before. Then.
And so that was it, or was it?
This blog was not resumed until several days later. In between this time I had occasion to see the person I was seated next to in the plane again. If you’re reading this, I never got your name. But, that is alright. I briefly chatted with you on the Big Four Bridge after flagging you down as you walked towards my friend and I. You said something about it being weird (that we saw each other again and not about how we spoke for the duration of the 120-minute flight). You were with what must have been your grandchildren and daughter-in-law (based on what you told me while we chatted on the plane).
So, now we’ll probably never see each other again. But, the randomness of it all was not altogether lost on me. For lack of a better word, it was probably pre-destined for us to briefly engage on the bridge in polite conversation. After all, our long chat in the plane about this and that was pretty atypical for me. This had to be a gift of sorts from the universe. How else to explain this strange turn of events?
While we were in the plane I occasionally glanced at the woman seated in front of us. I always wish I have ear plugs when someone is engaging in a conversation for the duration of a flight. With your help, I had turned into that guy. But, ironic as that may be, it was still a pleasant experience.
You had traveled from Westcliffe, CO. I did not remember exactly where Westcliffe is until later. I mistook Pinecliffe for Westcliffe during our conversation. But, as it turns out, I’ve been to Westcliffe. I should have had a clue when you said it was three hours to DIA from Westcliffe.
Anyway, take a peek at the picture on the main page of bobskelley.com. Specifically, look under the masthead/flag of “hittingthesweetspot by Bob Skelley—it comes in many forms.” The dirt road rolling off into a crop of pine trees nestled at the base of snow-capped peaks. I took this photo during my visit to Westcliffe, CO, several years ago.
Call any and all of this whatever you want. You can attribute it to whatever you like, too. At the end of the day, however, personally, I feel it just speaks to my contention there are no coincidences. Ever.