From Dallas

It’s 4:30am. I’m in Dallas. In the airport.

The conclusion: Redeye? Good plan. Redeye with a layover? Unspeakably bad plan.

Why two months ago, sitting on my couch with my laptop booking flights, this seemed like a good idea, I may never know. There are some things we simply cannot understand.

But here I am. In Dallas. At 4:30am. Waiting for my connecting flight.

And there’s really only one person I want to talk to about this-- you.

The first leg of this voyage was less than buttery. I was sitting amidst 20 or so teens on some school-chaperoned Spring Break trip. The two girls behind me had never been on a plane before, and yelled and giggled for 21 hours straight during and after takeoff. Normally their joy at this would have made me happy. At 1:30am? Less so.

Then the flight attendant came by and I ordered a water, despite not being thirsty. Plus, I realized that if I drank it I’d have to go to the bathroom mid-flight, and I was in the window seat. So I decided not to drink it. But then I realized that mid-sleep I would inevitably shift to the “elbows on the tray, forehead jammed into the seatback” position and knock the water over. This one had me stumped for a good ten minutes before I manned up and drank the water. Then I fell into a new quandary because there was a lot of ice remaining in the glass. These are the kind of problems I have. So I said screw it and picked up my book, The Kite Runner, and figured I’d defeat the ice through ice’s worst enemy-- time.

So I read the Kite Runner for a bit, solved the ice problem, and went to sleep. Except that I was haunted by the rape scene in the book and couldn’t sleep.

Eventually, I fell asleep, only to be awakened by the flight attendant, who must have been bored out of her mind because she announced the gates out of which all 73 connecting flights would be departing. Why do they do this? There are screens everywhere in the terminal with this exact information.

The sole bright spot occurred at the end of the flight when I yawned and my ears popped, which was like cracking an egg of heaven.

And while we’re here in Dallas together--

I’m incredibly happy that the miserable February/March six week sports drought is over. And there’s no better reward for suffering through the drought than March Madness. It’s like when the male penguins go through absolute hell for four months and suddenly their girls are back and the sun’s back and they don’t have to deal with the egg anymore.

Then, of course, baseball comes back, and we even get The Masters as icing on the cake. Although today the I saw the commercial for The Masters where it goes, “The Masters. A tradition unlike any other.” And I don’t really get it. There are similar traditions. Like the US Open, or the Buick Classic.

I’ll also be drafting my fantasy baseball team this week. Which would be something to look forward to, except I’ll be visiting my grandparents at the time and drafting from their 1989 internet connection. I am terrified of having to rely on their computer or internet connection for anything, let alone something as significant and life-altering as a fantasy baseball draft. I’m already preparing myself for comments like, “Timothy, what is this game you’re playing?” and “Timothy, enough of your games, it’s a beautiful day outside.”

They just announced that they’re now boarding all rows in Group 4. I have to go. I’m in Group 4.