Flying can be scary. Not entirely because you can plummet to your death... although there is that factor. No, what I am really talking about is the scariness of traveling alone and not knowing who will end up being your traveling companions.

In Minneapolis, I had to go from the furthest gate in Concourse A to the middle of Concourse F... which was essentially as far as one could have to go. The plane was boarding by the time I got there.

I got to my row. I was to be seated at the window. There was a lady, who was on the larger side, seated in the middle. As I was stowing my carry-on in the overhead compartment, I mentioned to her that I had the seat by the window. She just stared at me with this blank gaze and made no indication that she was going to make it any easier on me by standing to let me by or anything.

She scooched back a little bit in her seat, leaving me a good inch and a half between her chubby legs and the seat in front of her. I could not go over her, as she was holding a very large bag protectively on her lap. Oh, what to do? Climbing over from the seat behind was somewhat appealing, but I just mashed my way through as best I could.

I settled into my seat. Coat used for blanket. Book at hand -- and I prayed that, not unlike the widow's neverending jar of oil, I could somehow stretch the last seven pages of my book into two-hours' worth of reading material.

Only after a few moments did I realize what was really seated next to me. This lady was like a gurgling cauldron of mucus. Her breathing was labored and raspy. Every couple minutes a cough bubbled forth from the deep. She was sniveling and blowing and wiping and sniffing constantly. Not normally a hypochondriac, I could actually feel her savage germs encroaching on my space. I tried not to breathe. It was the longest flight of my life.

I did make it back safely, however. I think I am breathing a little clearer now. More tomorrow. Now I sleep.