Ever since my mom told me she has Dry Eye Syndrome, my eyes have ached. A symptom of this strain is incessant watering—the name making no sense is all the more frustrating. This leads to constantly reassuring people that you're not crying—like when I was walking on the beach with my friend Max, and the onshore breeze whistling over my retinas made my satisfaction with my CauliPower Pizza emerge as the dramatic end scene from Beaches, only instead of me singing "You're the Wind Beneath My Wings" to my withering friend, I'm sobbing over the evolution of flavorful wheat alternatives.
And so, over my holiday home, I’d notice the more my mom’s eyes would water, the more mine would. You may see the more severe issue looming over me…
“Oh god,” I thought. “Am I an empath?”
I couldn’t bring myself to admit it yet.
The night before my flight back to LA, I tossed and turned, contemplating the consequences of this affliction—one that humans seem to wear as a badge, though never distinguishing it between disability or superpower. I awoke from a nightmare where I was documenting my empathy to a plane full of cynics like a celiac trapped in an Olive Garden, detailing his gluten intolerance to his captors—“Give me the hose, but not another breadstick!”
I have visions of friends belaboring the details of their season’s problems; only instead of listening and soothing them with the advice I’d never heed myself, I scream at them to stop!
“Can’t you see my unrelenting humanness will absorb your condition?”
Judge me as you will, but think of my eyes—how they well and spill. Light affects them most—bright screens and big windows are PUNISHING.
With about 30 minutes left on my first flight, an attendant told me to open my window shade. I was accosted by a harsh spotlight of brumal sky. I craned away from the window. “I may never see again,” I thought. Passengers in my row shuddered in horror when they saw the tear ducts of my right eye bubble and fill. I shut the window in agony—in defiance.
Seconds later, I was asked to open the shade again. My anger grew as firm as Spirit’s non-reclineable chairs. I contemplated my choices. I could…
Option A. Beckon the captain and crew, and explain that I am, clinically speaking, a self-diagnosed empath. Sure, my rep as certified ‘bad boy’ would be lost, and they’d wonder what my enlarged empathy has to do with the window, but to avoid an exhausting exegesis on my gift/burden, they’d apologize, close my window, and bring me a vodka & tomato juice au gratis.
Option B. Simply tell them I have an undiagnosed eye condition that makes me a little bitch when it comes to bright light.
Option C. (The fun one) Go full American idiot on their ass and scream obscenities and amendment rights at a plane full of gawking passengers armed with iPhone cameras.
I chose Option D, lifted the shade immediately, and tried to mask my servility with an indignant pout. But as I wiped a leaky faucet of tears from my irritated right eye, I fantasized about Option C—my face red and legs stiff as the Spirit team dragged me off the plane…
“Y’all forgot this was MY YEAR!” I scream.
Phones fly out.
“BIG THINGS COMING SOON!”
The crowd cheers as I’m escorted away.
In haunting falsetto, I sing, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MEEE”—tears rushing down my face, not because I’m crying but because the glacial Detroit air wafting through the terminal corridor is having a field day with my Dry Eye. Oh, yes—did I mention it was my birthday? Nothing screams, “Eat, Pray, Trash,” quite like flying Spirit and being detained by TSA at your Detroit layover.
An onlooker in a pair of UGG boots calls me an old hag.
I shout back, “I’m not even middle-aged!” And then solemnly wonder if I am.
“Tase his ass.” I hear before everything goes white.
I come to, propped up against Gate 41's kiosk.
An agent kneels down, “Sir, you DO NOT know the day I’ve had—inclement weather has caused multiple airline cancellations, and half of my staff is sick with the holiday flu. Not to mention—“
“STOP!” Please, stop!” I beg her. My tears finally genuine—the drool too. “I’ll cooperate; just don’t go on another second about your problems.”
The agent withdraws, aghast.
“You wouldn’t get it,” hand to my forehead. “I’m an empath.”
This is Henry. The tiny violin playing throughout was from Rachmaninoff Op. 34, No. 14.
(Ps. Apologies for the lack of posting in the last month—a combo of being sick, moving, and my writing brain tending to shut down during unspeakable crisis in the world—too many to name. BIG THINGS COMING SOON THOUGH!)
I think it’s safe to say you just redefined “red eye flight”!
LOL! A genuine modern day tragedy at last explained!