A Woman Trapped in a Woman's Body Read Online Free PDF Page B

I’ve gained two pounds. Besides that, the similarities are eerie.
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    It’s day five of “no movement” when we’re finally boarding our flight for the Emmys. But for once my bowels are not my major issue of the day. Flying has trumped pooping.
    I’ve always been a giddy and petrified flyer. I prefer to sit by someone who is dressed like a pilot or flight attendant so I can keep my eye on them to make sure they don’t suddenly make the sign of the cross.
    Nuns, newborns, newlyweds clutching each other during takeoff, youth groups returning from or en route to building libraries in South America—anything reeking of “when bad things happen to good people” really frightens me.
    Comedy Central people dominate our JetBlue flight from JFK to Long Beach. If we do go down, the entire staff—except Jon (hmmm)—will be wiped out.
    The plane ride is much like the bus trip in the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Everyone’s medication is a little off today.
    We’re taxiing for takeoff and one of the writers has actually gotten out of his seat and is walking toward the front of
the plane. I should have known he was a terrorist, he’s always been so withdrawn and overly polite. The flight attendant yells at him over the intercom, “Sir! Sit down! You can’t—”
    He yells back, “You told me I could sit by my wife during takeoff! To wait until everyone was seated and then I could—”
    She hangs up and comes storming toward him. “You can’t stand up during taxi! Sit down!”
    He doesn’t seem to give a shit. He’s just gotten married and is worried about his wife, who is nervous about takeoff. I’ve been married for three years and didn’t even bring my husband with me ... having decided that “it’s my childhood dream” was a passive-aggressive statement.
    I’ve ridden in a lot of planes but I’ve never seen someone get up during taxi and fight about it. And here I am, seeing it happen, and it’s someone I know. The flight attendant gives him the “we’re going to have to turn this plane around” spiel, but he keeps fighting.
    â€œBut you told me you’d come and get me after everyone was seated and I could—”
    â€œI’m going to have to call the pilot and tell him—”
    â€œBut you said—”
    I’m seated very close to all of this and it’s freaking me out. The insanity does not die down once we reach our cruising altitude. We’re a group of scared, alcoholic, post-9/11 New York comedy people, so as soon as turbulence starts the flight attendant bell is going off every three minutes.

    Ding! “Is this normal? This amount of turbulence?”
    â€œOh yes. This is actually light chop. Pilots are trained to handle much heavier—”
    Ding! “Is everything okay?”
    â€œYes, this is perfectly normal light chop.”
    Ding! “Does this mole look irregular to you?”
    After a while everyone is making their way to the bathroom, weaving their way past me, clutching the seatbacks or the sweaty bald foreheads of their co-workers to make it to the lavatories.
    It’s a plane full of Woody Allens, without their foster wives to calm them down.
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    Maybe it’s the LA heat, but that night in the hotel room, I try on my dress and it’s still a little tight. In fact it’s more than a little tight. There are areas of friction under my arms and slicing pain around my waist. Once the dress is fully zipped up, I’m running around the hotel room, screaming, “Get it off me! Get it off! I can’t breathe! It’s cutting me! It burns!”
    Thanks to Dr. Atkins, my insides are packed full of salami and cheese. Very uncomfortable. In fact, upon landing in LA, I called Gay Jay (who lives in the area) and told him that I needed some sort of emergency evacuation.
    He told me that I