I was five when I took my first air plane ride. It was a class field trip and I remember my Mom was one of the parent supervisors. I don’t remember much about that short flight which basically just circled over our city and then landed, but I do remember the lovely shade green my mother was sporting that day.

It was that flight which set my imagination ablaze and since then, I love air travel. I grew up fantasizing about being a pilot or a flight attendant and spending my days in the sky. I always felt robbed that I wasn’t born with wings. Instead, I managed to get hammer toes, a brittle spine and elf ears.

(With those features it’s amazing I ever get laid. My husband is many things but apparently discriminating isn’t one of them.)

It’s not like there aren’t parts of air travel I could live without. I’m not so keen over the airlines bending me over and raping me every time I need to purchase a ticket to go somewhere. Nor do I love having to walk past the first class customers as they stretch out in comfort as they sip their complimentary alcoholic beverages as I struggle to schlepp my held-together-with-duct-tape luggage past them to basically sit in some stranger’s lap becausee the airlines like to cram us together and then toss pretzels at our heads in an effort to distract us from our discomfort with salty stale carbs.

(Don’t even get me started on Delta Airlines and the attendant at the gate who told me I could have pre-boarded since I am hobbled with a cane if only I knew about that policy; a policy in which, since implementing new boarding procedures, they don’t want to publicly announce in case they are flooded with the disabled and old folks wanting to rush the gate.)

(Damn those elderly people and the cripples. Totally ruining it for everyone.)

But once that plane starts barreling down the run way and hurls itself into the sky, I forget all about the annoying parts of air travel. Every time I’m amazed by the technology that allows us to fly through the heavens and above the clouds. Each time I’m mesmerized by the view above and down below.

When I’m up in the sky, I’m closer to where my angel boy Bug is and it feels like I can almost reach out and touch him.

It’s a magical experience for me.

Until the person sitting next to me farts.

Nothing yanks you out of the heavens, back down to earth and into an oversized sardine box faster than the malodorous redolence of some stranger’s natural funk.

It’s not that I have anything against flatulence in general. It’s a natural body function everybody has and more often than not, it’s the one bodily function which produces the most comedic reaction. Who doesn’t secretly love a good fart joke now and then? The look on a victim’s face as their nose tells them they’ve been crop dusted is priceless and many a man can testify to the joys of partaking in a good dutch oven with a mate.

I don’t think there has been a single person in history who hasn’t fallen victim to the ill-timed release of pent up gas. Who hasn’t cut the cheese and wished to be elsewhere as the stench floats it’s way to one’s nasal hairs and threatens to burn off one’s eyebrows?

Gas happens. If you are really lucky there is a child or dog nearby you can blame it on.

Breaking wind is as natural as crying when cutting an onion. It’s all part of the gassy circle of life and should be quietly celebrated.

Unless of course you are trapped inside a tin box with poor ventilation and sitting next to a tooter who is in dire need of some Bean-O. Then there is nothing funny about flatulence.

It’s almost criminal when someone lets one rip up in the sky. I don’t know what it is about being on an airplane and needing to toot a silent stinker into the seat cushion, but people fall victim to this every day. It’s an air current of the variety no one wants around. Heck, depending on what you ate and the type of steel your guts are lined with it could bring a flight down. The tooting terrorist. Imagine having to live with that headline following you around for life.

Farting on airplanes ought to be illegal.

Because when your seat mate drops a silent stinker just inches from your nose causing your eyes to water and you must fight to remain in your seat instead clawing your way to fresh air the way your nose demands; it doesn’t matter how natural passing gas is, nor does it make a difference how mature one thinks she is.

The ONLY thing that matters at that moment is surviving the scent.

And praying like mad no one thinks YOU are responsible for the back door breeze.

Let’s just say it was a long flight home while the dude next to me practiced blowing his butt bugle all the way home.

Like I said, farting on an airplane ought to be criminal. Unless of course, it’s you.