I have never
given birth, but I have been on a long haul flight. Sure they’re technically a
little different, and yes only one of them truly comes with the risk of vaginal
tearing (I think… I hope? don’t answer that), but in a lot of ways I believe my
reactions to them would be quite similar.
When I
prepare to travel from one side of the world to the other, there’s anticipation,
nervous energy, and an attempt to pack for every possible scenario. Then about
a third of the way through flying for 24 hours I want to press rewind and take
the whole thing back – I suspect I’d reach the same conclusion while in labour,
I’d just ask them to stuff the baby back in and suggest we forget about the
whole procreation gambit.
So, if surrendering
all concepts of personal space to economy seating is somewhat akin to the
miracle of life, what does that make jet lag? Not the allegedly edible delight
that is afterbirth – I won’t be pushing this analogy quite that far because… ew.
It’s something else entirely, a different species altogether.
Jet Lag is a
floating unicorn waiting for you in the arrivals lounge.
This unicorn
to be precise…
Whether the
unicorn is a balloon being held by the friend surprising you at the airport, or
simply hovering at the edge of your peripheral imagination like Mike Pence (you
know you should be more worried by him, but your brain can only hold so much
fear for the future of humanity at one time) – everyone gets a unicorn at the
end of long haul.
He (the
unicorn, not Pence) represents jet lag as it should be seen – the surreal fever
dream that haunts you over the coming days – surprising, slightly trippy and
prone to getting in the way.
And as the
days progress after touchdown, you believe it’s gone, but it hasn’t. You keep
thinking it’s not really there, but it is.
 |
| What unicorn? I can't see him. |
Said unicorn
thinks he’s being uber stealthy, but what he lacks in audible noise, he more
than makes up for with his vibrant plumage and habit of drifting into the
background of photos.
Oh, hello
unicorn, I didn’t see you there. You’re so subtle and unassuming.
Actually in
that particular photo Jet Lag looks super pissed
that Mother Painefull is utterly owning him in the competition to see who can
be adorned with a wider variety of colours all at once. Jet Lag the unicorn has
kaftan envy, but he’s also pretty much jealous of anyone in possession of a
torso.
Jet Lag the
unicorn haunted me for a full week – drifting casually through Mother Painefull’s
birthday gathering, leering sarcastically as I reacquainted myself with the
horrors of the Australian climate (sunburn, sweat, year-round competitive
cooking shows), and looming ghost-like in my imagination as I tried desperately
to find sleep in my childhood bedroom.
I can hear the disembodied unicorn chuckling dryly as he points out: "Nothing puts
the ‘real’ in surreal quite like knowing you’re unemployed, living on the
generous rent-free scheme of your mother, and about to turn 33."
There’s a
reason Jet Lag has no friends – he’s a total arsehole.
Painefull
Out
