Our flight from Tucson landed softly at SFO at 9.28am this morning - two minutes ahead of schedule - and as the plane taxied into the gate I was looking forward to a lazy Sunday at home. I had spent most of the flight reading 'The Smartest Guys in The Room' and nodding off a few times for a few minutes.
Once we were at the gate and the fasten seat belt sign was turned off, I realized that something was wrong. The cramped seats had refuted me to stretch my legs as appropriate and my good ol' Perthes kicked in.
I stood up, got my jacket and stumpled out of the plane like a drunk German. The only Trollie Dolly on the plane asked if I needed a wheelchair and I declined politely. I entered the bridge between plane and gate and held on to the sidebars with all my upper body strength.
It was painfully clear that my hip just had given in and there was no way in hell or heaven that I was going to successfully get through the terminal, to the shuttle and further to the car. I finally let my stubborness subside and agreed to use a wheelchair the second time offered.
Once in the wheelchair I felt extremely stupid. People looked, no, they glared, since there was nothing visible wrong with me - neither old nor wrapped in bandaid or cast. I didn't feel much sympathy from my fellow travellers, but the United Airline and airport crews were awesome.
I just wished I could have enjoyed getting pushed around the airport a little more, being demanding, bossing people around and letting out screams of pain once in a while. You know, basic wheelcahir resident sympathy.
Yet nothing bad without any good; the missus has been pampering me the whole day and I've seen five new movies - so far. Not all of them great but one cannot be to picky.
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