on in-flight love

I'd like to argue that an airline trip with a significant other is a defining moment in the relationship, just as crucial as the first kiss, or the first time he took you to a Wendy's, instead of a trendy restaurant in the West Village.

Think on it for a moment: one minute he's paying for your latte or bringing you $10.00 worth of flowers just because, and the next, you are wedged closer than ever into two impossibly narrow seats and eating prepackaged lettuce and ginger snaps out of a mini-tray. What better bonding experience is there?

The traditionalist screenwriter (whose ideal actress in a romantic comedy is a Peet or a Judd), often depicts the airplane ride as a sensual experience, where unbeknownst to the rest of the passengers or flight crew, one of the aforementioned "actresses" drags the attractive male lead (conveniently located in the aisle), into the magically vacant bathroom stall, and proceeds to feel him up without setting off the smoke detectors. But this is far from reality, and more random than romantic. What really binds us together is seeing each other bleary-eyed and dehydrated after two four-hour flights, enduring the screaming baby two aisles ahead, the painfully tedious in-flight movie (ala Vince Vaughn), and coping cheerfully when the baggage claim doesn't spit out your well-marked, completely unique pieces of luggage.

It is these experiences, not sex in a bathroom, that make you a couple or just a couple of people.