by Laura Elizabeth, age 26.

I am going to preface this by saying you should take one look at the category I filed this under and figure out if you’d like to keep reading. I’ll wait.

Oh good! You came back! Allow me to alienate you further!

My issues with my uterus are well documented. So much so that I have an entire category related to posts about it. OBVI. In truth, I actually get a little self-conscious about it, particularly this one time? When a friend’s mom read a post of mine and was all, WHY DOES SHE WRITE ABOUT HER PERIOD ON HER BLOG!? And my friend was all, because Laura has no dignity?

To be fair, I get really embarrassed sometimes when people point out the fact that they would NEVER write their life out on the internet, womenly problems or not. And it’s true that anyone can Google my name and instantly find out the status of my menstrual cycle. Sure. Fine. Maybe there was a better way to go about that. And I do realize that most people who are uncomfortable with my blog are from a generation that was not used to telling anyone ANYTHING, forget broadcasting it to the general public. I respect that.

However, anytime I think about shutting down my blog, I think about all the good that I’ve gotten from writing on it. Specifically, with regards to my medical problems, the solutions and advice that I have received from the internet far outweigh any embarrassment I have about sharing it with the world. And I do have to chuckle when my friend Alan comes up to me before philosophy class and is all HILARIOUS BLOG. THANKS FOR TELLING ME ABOUT YOUR PERIOD.

You’re welcome, Alan! Anytime!

That being said, I shall now tell you few remaining readers about my flight home from Los Angeles on Monday and if you have been reading for awhile, you will not be a bit surprised at the crap that went down on that flight. However, I feel it is my need to document it as I am pretty sure it goes down in history as not only the worst flight of my life (HANDS DOWN! NO CONTEST!) but one of the Top Five Worst Days of My Entire Life Thus Far Not Kidding, Not Exaggerating, Furreal. And people, I am grateful that that is true since it pretty much means my life has been pretty freakin’ awesome if uneventful with the exception of what I like to call Cramps From Hell.

Let us begin by saying the flight was doomed from the start.

PCG and I had been sharing heated words via cellphone before I boarded because we like to fight about stuff that doesn’t make any sense. Like, when we can spend time together and if we are spending enough time together and what constitutes quality time vs. other kinds of time. To the point where it is so ridiculous that we’re both like, WHY ARE WE FIGHTING ABOUT WANTING TO SEE EACH OTHER? Especially because when we fight about it, then we do not want to see each other at all and that negates the entire fight. And if anything pisses me off, it’s a fight that should not have been a fight in the first place.

I will be the first to say that I was to blame for this one. But that is neither here nor there.

So, I was a bit riled up before I even got on the damn plane. And I was about to get even MORE agitated. My boarding pass instructed me that I belonged in ZONE 4 which was the last zone to board. (THANKS DELTA!) As usual, people from various zones (INCLUDING 4!!! TRESPASSERS!) got in line WAY before their zone was called and even pushed their way through to board the plane with all the Zone 1 and 2 people.

I do not really understand this, as I am very attached to people Playing By The Rules. After all, it’s not general seating, you know? It’s not like I’m in a rush to get to 28D and sit down, which is exactly what I was about to do anyway for the next five hours. So, I’m all, OH CHILL OUT PEOPLE, I will stand over here and wait to be called because I am a perfectionist and better than you.

The problem with being Right instead of being Pushy and Annoying is that on an overbooked flight, SURE! your seat is the same but the room in the overhead bins? ALL TAKEN BY THE TIME YOU BOARD. And that’s when I had my Oprah Ah HA! moment: I realized that no one had made an ass out of myself but me when I assumed that people were going to be nice and fair and rational and leave me space to store my carry-on.

I stood in the aisle as I watched the overhead bins get slammed shut one by one like dominos falling to the floor.

“Does anyone have a suitcase that needs a spot?” asked a flight attendant whose name I still do not know. In a few short hours, we were going to become best friends for life.

“I do!” I volunteered as chipper as I could manage.

“Ooo, sweetie,” she said, clicking her tongue. “I’m not sure we have room…let me see…”

She popped open an overhead bin and took out a backpack.

“Is this yours?” she asked a blonde girl seated a few rows behind me.

“Yeah,” said the girl, taking off her head phones, eyeing me suspiciously.

“And is this your purse?” asked the flight attendant, taking down another item from the overhead.

“Yeah,” said the girl again.

“Well, you can’t have two up here. Can you take the backpack and put it under the seat?”

“No.”

I froze.

There was no way on earth that girl had just flat out refused to accommodate a very polite and rational request, was there?

“Excuse me?” said the flight attendant.

“NO,” she said again. “I don’t want my stuff on the floor.”

OH NO SHE DIDN’T!!!!

In my world, the perfectly reasonable and righteous world, it was then that I walked over to the girl and dropped my carry-on suitcase on her head and the entire airplane burst into enthusiastic applause, thanking me profusely with extra peanuts and cookies for knocking a rude obnoxious dumbass unconscious.

I came back to the present.

“I’m sorry,” said the flight attendant, handing the girl her backpack. “Those are the rules. You’re not allowed to have two things stowed up top.”

“BUT I DON’T WANT MY BACKPACK ON THE FLOOR,” protested the girl.

BITCH, PLEASE!

“Too bad!” smiled the flight attendant sweetly. “This young lady needs room for her belongings. Come here, sweetie! Let’s get this thing up here!”

And with that, I shoved my suitcase into the overhead compartment, right above the Crazy Girl’s head and OH did it take EVERY OUNCE of self-control not to accidentally let it slip through my fingers and OOPS SORRRYYYYYYYYY! This suitcase has a mind of its own! HA HA! SORRY ABOUT THAT CONCUSSION!

As I slumped down in my seat, already weary and looking forward to watching some episodes of Weeds, I felt a twinge in my uterus. It had been there for a few hours and I knew what was going on, acknowledged it and thanked the good Lord that the pain was tolerable and that I was prepared and would be fine.

At least it doesn’t hurt that bad and I’m not getting sick!

This thought played over and over again in my mind as the pain started out as a twinge and then increased to an ache and then bombarded me in a full out attack. Oh yes, my friends. Where the heck was Samuel L. Jackson? Because this was some motherfreaking cramps on a motherfreaking plane.

I’m not sure exactly how long it took for me to lose my appetite and my will to live simultaneously but I venture to guess that I had been up in the air for an hour or two before I was ready to jump out the window. The flight attendant from earlier passed me by and I tapped her hand.

“Do you have any painkillers?” I begged.

“Oh sweetie!” she exclaimed. “You’re as white as a ghost! What’s wrong!”

“CRAMPS,” I hissed. “SO BAD.”

“Oh no!”

And she was off, returning in a few minutes with three Advil (from her PERSONAL stash!) and a bottle of water she stole from first class.

I swallowed them instantly, put my head between my knees and prayed.

All I needed was for the meds to kick in. All I had to do was wait out the pain until the Advil saved me. But the pain…and the nausea…and the pain…

It came in waves. Intensifying to such a degree that I couldn’t cry, couldn’t moan, couldn’t do anything but go to a very deep place inside my body and surrender. It would ease up for a few seconds, allowing me to breathe and relax and then it would slam me all over again. The Advil wasn’t working and worse than that, the nausea I had been fighting was threatening to overtake me.

I do think at this point, I contemplated walking a few rows back and vomiting on the backpack girl.

ANYONE?

Instead, I got up and made my way to the middle of the plane near the two bathrooms where I found my favorite flight attendant throwing away garbage.

“OH SWEETHEART! TELL ME WHAT YOU NEED!”

She looked genuinely scared. Another flight attendant asked if she should page for a doctor.

I said no, I needed to get into a bathroom, both of which were occupied. And it was at that moment that my legs gave out from underneath me and I fell to the floor.

HI I AM LAURA AND I EMBARRASS MYSELF *EVERYWHERE*!!!

The flight attendant helped me up and I leaned on her until I could get into a bathroom. And I don’t need to get into the details of what happened in that lovely airplane stall but let’s just say that nothing stayed in my stomach. Not breakfast, not the Advil, not anything. The pain was too great and my body wanted it out. OUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT.

I decided that the only rational explanation for the pain and the nausea was that I was birthing triplets.

My suspicions were confirmed when the flight attendant (can I call her a stewardess? I REALLY REALLY WANT TO! Political correctness be damned!) knocked on the door and passed me two cups, one with seltzer and one with ice chips.

ICE CHIPS?

I was for sure in labor. FOR SURE!

The cold ice on my raw throat was so great a pleasure, so intense a feeling that I finally let loose and cried. I had nothing else to hold onto as the pain was easing up and the nausea was fading. I put the cover down on the toilet seat (GROSS!) and sat on it (DOUBLE GROSS!) and spent a few moments with my precious, precious ice chips.

“Take as long as you need!” the stewardess/flight attendant had said.

“But I’m taking up a bathroom!” I had protested. “People are gonna get ANGRY!”

“LET THEM,” she said. “There’s plenty of bathrooms on this plane!”

So I sat.

Feeling guilty and sorry, not really for myself but for the line of people that must be forming outside the accordian door, wondering at what kind of inconsiderate person takes up an airplane bathroom that long.

I made a mental note to NEVER get impatient at a bathroom line EVER AGAIN, to always assume some girl is in there, birthing triplets, chewing on ice chips, crying her face off because THERE ARE SOME MOTHERFREAKING CRAMPS ON THIS MOTHERFREAKING PLAAAAAAAAAAANE.

Speaking of which, that flight attendant shall hence forth be called Samuel L. Jackson.

And I love her.

I eventually made my way back to my seat. I wrapped myself up in my coat, sipped water and watched “Away We Go” which is a movie about having a baby. Which I decided was probably the worst decision anyone could ever make because DO YOU KNOW HOW PAINFUL THAT MUST BE?

Pretty. Damn. Painful.

But at least in the end, you get a baby.

All I got was some ice chips.

Actually, I got ice chips, a glass of seltzer, what turned to be FOUR water bottles stolen from First Class, three Advil tablets, cookies and Samuel L. Jackson who stopped by my seat before the plane landed and HELD MY HAND.

“You’re warm now, honey! Ain’t that a change!” she exclaimed.

“Thank you so much,” I told Samuel L. Jackson. “I love you.”

“Oh sweetie, you need to get yourself home and into a hot bath!”

“I will,” I promised Samuel L. Jackson. “I will.”

“And hey, until this plane lands, you want a cocktail, sugar? Alcohol helps everything.”

And that is how it came to be that I proposed marriage to Samuel L. Jackson, a middle-aged stewardess aboard Delta Flight #84, en route from Los Angeles to Cairo stopping on the way to touch down in New York City.

In all honesty, I am thinking of writing Delta a letter. Or an e-mail? Or something? I’m not sure how I can find out her name or get in touch with her at all but I have an urgent need to let her know how I feel. My lame thank-yous don’t feel like they’re enough. She helped me in ways I couldn’t even imagine. Helped me stand up, passed me ice chips, stroked my forehead, held my hand as I cramped and contracted and vomited and died and gave birth to triplets. All in an airplane bathroom.

I couldn’t have made it safely into JFK, seats upright and tray tables securely fastened and experiencing some moderate turbulence without you, Samuel. You are the flight attendant of my dreams. And the next time I fly, I am going to bring some motherfreaking heating pads aboard that motherfreaking plane. Also? Possibly a bathtub. And if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me and Samuel L. Jackson who will personally vouch for my need to take up any space I need to in the overhead bin.