The significance of the mundane.

I hate flying. I really, truly loathe the idea of it. Every time I'm on a plane taxiing down the runway or queued up waiting for clearance, I close my eyes and think to myself "This could very well be my last moment on Earth. And what am I doing? Sitting strapped to a chair that is almost the complete opposite of comfortable, surrounded by strangers I've been sharing recirculated air with for the last 30 minutes. What a way to go."
With the realization that I ponder the abrupt end to my short (and thus far utterly unaccomplished) life, consider this: On a recent flight from the Midwest to the 49th state, I experienced what can be considered the least nerve-wracking takeoff in the history of me+flight. I was seated next to a friendly couple who offered me the window seat (apparently they could tell how hungover I was and how much I just needed to pass the fuck out). Now, usually when I'm around couples I get painfully awkward and feel like there's a bubble of happiness surrounding them which I have to be careful not to burst with my inability to function normally in society. But with these two, I felt oddly... like a part of them? I'm not going to be able to string together the perfect words to describe what I mean, but I felt un-ostracized (my blog, my made-up words) sitting next to them. Naturally I went through my typical "I'm about to die" mental prep, but at the end of that in-desperate-need-of-an-overhaul train of thought, instead of berating myself for choosing such a stupid way to die, I told myself that if I was to die right then, next to these people, I'd be okay.
I'm not a "warm fuzzies" type of person (not true - catch me on a bad day and I'm one big ball of emotion), but I felt at peace with myself for the first time in years. It's mind-boggling to think that two complete strangers could have a more profound impact on just one moment of my life than some lifelong relationships have had.

Or who knows, maybe I was just still drunk.