STRIPPER ON A PLANE

 I went through a season about two years ago that was really dark. It was my biggest life crisis; meltdown; disassembly to date and it was a doozy. Everybody goes through hard stuff and I had been through hard things prior to this. But this time I got off the hamster wheel and just let myself fall to pieces. No more pretending. No more bootstraps. No more taking one for the team. I am certain I was making my guardian angel nervous.

  What that looked like was me being unable to function normally. It looked like me crying without warning between five and 20,000 times per day. It looked like me having nasty, hateful thoughts about myself, my life and my worth. It looked like me sending a desperate email to my counsellor (doesn’t everybody have a counsellor?) and it looked like my counsellor telling me to get on a plane to see her immediately while my faithful husband took over absolutely everything so I could go try to figure my heart and mind out. I am normally a really hopeful, optimistic person and I was highly uncomfortable in this state. I was desperate and willing to do anything to get it to stop, so I got on the plane.

WARNING: if you have never been anywhere close to this state I encourage you to just not bother reading the rest of this story; you will only judge me if you keep going. However, if you have ever been down and out for reals, with a dash of crazy, then read on with great relish and self-identification.

  I flew from Calgary to Denver and had a couple of hours of layover before I would board a fifteen minute flight to Colorado Springs, where my dear counsellor would be waiting. I found a quiet restaurant and ordered bacon mac & cheese and a few mojitos (the depressed person’s favorite meal.) By the time I was into my second mojito I was in full-on tears, by myself at my tiny table, thinking ludicrous, alcohol and carb fuelled thoughts. Thoughts like “Man, I feel like a crazy person. I had better not talk to anybody. Who knows what I would say? Who knows what I would do? I would probably cry all over someone and give them waaaaayyy too much information.  I can’t even trust myself.”

  It was at this point that my guardian angel went rushing on into God’s throne room and spoke up for me. I have never imagined my guardian angel would be a majestic being with glittery wings and angel-muscles. I have always assumed mine is the chubby, clumsy one with sticky lollipop-drool on its chin, running as fast as its little legs could take it, waving it’s lollipop hands at God in a panic like “God, God, I know You can hear her! We’ve got to do something! What should we doooooo? How can we save her from hersellllllfffff?????”

I know exactly what God said. He said, “Oh FABULOUS!!!! I have been waiting to try this out on someone!”

You know how when you get on a plane, you spend a pivotal moment deciding whether or not you will have any form of communication with your row-mates? By the time I squeezed into my window seat in the last row of this tiny plane, I had made up my mind. I was scared to death of myself and what I would behave like in my messed up state. I was going to talk to no one. No. One. If the flight attendant offered me a drink, I was probably just going to grunt and nod to be safe.

I scooted into the seat and crossed my legs and arms. I pointed myself sharply at the window, laid my head against the side of the plane forlornly and closed my eyes. When someone slid into the seat beside me I didn’t even blink. I was going to be impervious. Unless that someone was to ask me about my pants, apparently.

“Those are cool pants,” was all it took. My spell was broken. Suddenly the words “Oh thank you! You will never believe where I got them…” were spilling out of my mouth and I was kicking myself for caving so easily.

As it happens, I treasured this particular pair of pants and was delighted that someone noticed them. I am so shallow. You know how it goes. Conversation stops and starts as you and your row-mate decide how far to take this conversation. He asked where I was going. He asked where I was from. I kept it short and safe, then I asked the same questions in kind. He answered with mysterious phrases that begged more questions and I was too reeled in with the “nice pants” comment to retreat. He told me he was a dancer.

“What kind of dancing do you do?” I asked.

He replied, “The kind you’re thinking.”

Since I was thinking salsa (he looked a touch Latino to me) but I sensed a trick I said, “What kind am I thinking?”

He got a creepy twinkle in his eyes, “You know what kind.”

Uh. Uh. Uh. So salsa then?

I tell the truth, I have never witnessed any sort of male exotic dancer (thanks to me being only 18 at the time of the St. John’s Catholic Church daycare staff party) but I did have some sort of idea as to what a gentlemen in that profession might look like, be that idea right or wrong. This gentleman did not fit my preconceived profile of what someone in this line of work would look like. This should have been a clue to me to shut it down and close my eyes again. Retreat. Danger. Call back the troops.

But nope. In my state of confusion and incredulousness I had to ask the worst possible question at that particular juncture. I think what I said was “How… how… Uhhhh… how does one even GET into that line of work???”

And there began my descent into the worst, most outlandish story-time I have ever attended. I mostly just sat there with my mouth open, listening but trying not to listen. A few times I managed to blurt out things like “you’re lying” or “this is not real” but he just kept on trucking.

When his tale was told and he asked me what I did for a living, I tried to think of the safest, most evangelical, non-exotic answer I could give. So, I said “I am a worship pastor.” If there was any doubt in my mind that most of what was happening was a hoax, his next statement sealed the deal.

“Oh really? I thought you were a trainer. Because of your quads.” And then he reached out and touched my carb-nourished, jelly-filled, exercise-deprived, highly-depressed thigh.

Maybe some people when in a potentially vulnerable position take action. Maybe they press the flight attendant button and ask to be reseated. Maybe they tell the creeper to keep his paws to himself and stop the conversation short. Not me. Apparently I start laughing like a crazy person and laugh until my cheeks hurt and I can’t breathe.

This was a 15-20 minute flight and by the time it was over, my row-mate had asked me for my email address at least 12 times (not even sure how crazy Michelle even knew why that would be bad) and gave me the web address to his “business site” (I have never typed it in. Partly because I don’t want to know if it is true and partly because there is a filter on our internet that won’t let me).

  He asked me to sneak out that night and go bar hopping with him. He told me we could hang out as friends and that if it didn’t work out with my husband, he would be there for me. I laughed hysterically through the whole thing. The irony of this timing was not lost a bit on me. There I was, just a few short minutes ago, afraid of how vulnerable I might be to even just plain-old conversation in my depressed state. Annnnnd then this. I snapped back to my ever-loving senses and have steered clear of the depression-carb-mojito combo ever since.

Now that I am fully well and have my wits about me, I know why I laughed so hard versus freaking out. I think somewhere deep in my God-loving heart I knew what had happened. I knew that when I had thought those ridiculous, desperate, carb-mojito thoughts and my guardian angel ran up to God to ask Him what they should do to help, God just sent my guardian angel directly to me, to the back row of my fifteen minute flight.

Now I know for sure that my guardian angel is not a clumsy, chubby, lollipop-laden cherubic figure after all. He is a mid-forties, pudgy Hispanic guy with excessive cologne, nice jeans and a wicked, wicked sense of humour.