We Got Spirit... Yeah, Yeah, We Got Spirit...

So I'm flying out to LA. Apparently this is a prime flying day (who woulda thunk it) and flights were all super pricey. One airline was remarkably cheaper than the rest. Spirit Airlines. If you have never heard of it, you are not alone. I had to minimize my priceline page for a moment to google and verify that it was, in fact, an existent airline.

Lo and behold, Spirit exists. It is based out of Florida. It is actually the only airline to have a flight make it out of the Northeast during our little weekend snowstorm. Ah, Spirit, the Little Airline that Could. How happy I am that I found you. Ok, so yes, I did immediately find that they charge for 'seat reservations.' Fine, whatever. For once I will let the cards fall as they may. Put me in the middle. I dare you, Spirit Airlines. Printing out my boarding pass, I am thrilled to find that I was assigned an aisle seat. Spirit and I are apparently BFF's already.

Until I sat in my aisle seat. First, Spirit apparently has the smallest amount of leg room of any flight I have ever been on. And I've been on a lot of crappy planes. There is literally not even enough room for my knees, let alone my calves and my platform wedge boots. Second, you know that flappy pocket thing that holds the magazines in front of you? Well, mine was broken. The top metal bar that is supposed to hold it close to the seat in front of you, was instead wedged between my knees and the seat, harshly digging itself into my skin. This would, of course, be the one time I am flying with a knee injury. (Don't ask how I got that.) And I don't even want to get into the knees of the person behind me that have dug themselves into the small of my back. I have a feeling that whatever I may have saved on this flight will come back to haunt me ten-fold in the form of physical therapy.

I try to be patient. I have my legs stretched out in the aisle, moving them every ten seconds for the awkward amalgam of passengers plowing down the aisle toward the bathroom. I eat my carefully packed tofurky and fitness bread, sort of laughing to myself as I remember my friend's reaction to the name of the airline: "Seriously, Spirit Airlines? WTF. Who takes Spirit Airlines?! Do they like serve American Spirits?" To which I responded: "I don't know, apparently I do. And probably. American Spirits and firewater. This is gonna be be an awesome flight."

Suddenly, I realize how thirsty I am. (For water of the non-fire variety.) The whole not being able to bring water into the airport thing really places a damper on my 16,000 glasses a day. As luck would have it, the cart is one row behind me:

"Would you like to make a purchase?"
"Um. No. I'd just like a water and an orange juice, please."
"That will be $6."
"I'm sorry?"
"Beverages are $3 each."

I look at the miniscule bottles of water, knowing deep inside of me that it will take at least ten of them to make a dent in my dehydration.

"Ok, fine. Can I just have some tap water, please?"
"I'm sorry, we can't give you tap water."

I am sore. I am tired. I am aghast. I give the flight attendant the look of death and politely (read: icily) ask for a cup of ice.

I have, at this point, made no friends on my flight.

I hate the people in my aisle for forcing me to maneuver out of my seat every time they need to use the bathroom and made sure they were uncomfortable attempting a second venture. (Step 1. Pretend not to notice their lame, pseudo attempts to stand. Step 2. Ignore awkward throat clearing. This ignorance is excused by the fact that I am wearing headphones and clearly listening to loud, awesome music. Step 3. Finally, they either wave their hand in front of my face or tap me on the shoulder. I sigh, look down at my book, ipod, and cup of ice, making sure they note that this is a major inconvenience. Step 4: Awkwardly manage my way up and over the armrest that is, for whatever reason, immovable, and out into the aisle. Step 5: Repeat steps 2-4 upon their return.)

I also, clearly did not befriend the flight attendants or the people who had to choose to either clamber over and around my feet in the aisle or wait for me to convince my knee to bend without popping painfully back into place.

As the plane hit a major bout of turbulence and I became convinced that this ghetto little plane was about to spiral downward into the rocky, ocean waters (yes, in reality, we were flying over land, but not in my hypothetical daydream plane crash,) I almost regretted my ahorrance of in-flight small talk. I realized, that were we to crash, there was not one person on this plane who would pull me onto the lifeboat. I would perish, alone, amongst a hostile crowd.

I SO do not 'got spirit.'