Merry Christmas

For some reason, and I assume it must be the early onset of temporary insanity brought on by the heat and endless mosquitoes, I have had the same song swimming through my head for the past week. When I wake up in the morning, my first thoughts are:

Oh the weather outside is frightful,
But the fire is so delightful,
And since we've no place to go,
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!
It doesn't show signs of stopping
And I've bought some corn for popping
The lights are turned way down low
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

And the oddest thing is, I hate that song. I don’t even like it when it is in season, much less when it is 40 plus degrees outside. Could it be some weird strain of malaria after all? Could I have been bitten by the mosquito of Christmas past? Have I been bah humbugging a bit too much throughout my sub-continental adventure? It’s all very Charles Dickens meets “The Jungle Book” if you ask me. Am I unknowingly delirious and why is it that I am always to last to know when I am having a mental meltdown? Perhaps it is sunstroke. Perhaps I need more liquids. Given all the hot flashes I have been having, I would almost assume I was menopausal, but I highly doubt it. Although if my fading memory serves me correctly, I did read something somewhere that there is such a thing as male menopause. And why not? Why should women have all the fun?

Perhaps I am in need of a holiday. And if I took a holiday, some time to celebrate, just one day out of life, I am sure it would be alright and so next Thursday will find me sitting on the KLM flight to Amsterdam. In fact right about this time, I will be having one of those meals that should be classified as crimes against humanity. I am flying economy class. I make it my personal policy never to travel behind the blue curtain but my work has left me no choice. I will have to ask my friend Mark to try and get me upgraded, or to at least reserve me a great seat so I can at least pretend I am somebody, even if that somebody is a somebody who used to be somebody. I wouldn’t at all mind that question “Hey, didn’t you used to be someone?” to which I would reply “I’m not sure.” Who invented economy class anyway? Who decided that just anybody should be allowed to fly? I remember when I was very young and flying was a most glamorous affair. Stewardesses (and they were called that then) were the original supermodels. They were the Kate’s, Linda’s, Cindy’s and Naomi’s of the sky. People wore their best clothes and as a young boy I would be taken into the cockpit to meet the pilots, sit in the jump-seat and I would get my very own wings. It was grand.

One of my earliest memories is sitting upstairs in a Pan-Am 747 with my little Disney coloring books having absolutely no clue just how special it was to be on a plane. I practically grew up on airplanes, being shuttled back and forth between coasts, between parents and later, between glamorous shopping destinations. But why couldn’t mass travel remain an elitist thing? I don’t mean to sound like a snob, but really, does one truly feel comfortable during heavy turbulence while sitting next to someone in sandals and socks? I should think not. I most certainly don’t.