Me? I am a liar. A liar! My pants? They are on fire.

There are things, every time I do them, that I swear I will never do again, and then I do. Shopping at Staples on West Eighty-first Street and Broadway is one of them.

Flying is another.

I hate to fly. It’s not even being in the air that is the worst part, although the idea that I might easily plummet from the air to the ground is never far from my mind. Equally horrific, and infinitely more probable, is the annoying bureaucracy of flying: having to arrive at the airport so early, parking the car far away, the line at check in, the line at the x-ray machine, delayed flights, canceled flights, claiming luggage, renting a car. And then there is the indignity of flying coach: the cramped leg space, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, the lack of amenities, having to listen to other people’s nonsense (much of which is broadcast from screaming babies), the lack of control over any aspect of the environment.

There was something wrong with me yesterday. Perhaps because I forgot to take my medication for a few scattered days while in Los Angeles and Las Vegas, my mind was going whacko. Every noise, every word, every jostle seems calculated to annoy me to the fullest. I have also been claustrophobic. These are not symptoms amenable to air travel. Especially not when one’s plane has been delayed for four hours and is then diverted to a holding pattern, and when one ends up at the luggage-claim carousel next to an elderly chatty Cathy who maintains a monologue very similar to this for a half hour: I don’t remember what my bag looks like! Oh, yes, I do, it’s green, a duffle, army green, not like that hunter green. She told me she put a red ribbon on hers. I think that one’s black. I had a red ribbon for mine, too. Is that my bag? No. That looks like it. Well, it’s sort of that color, but not really, more of an army green. More of a duffle. Check that black one and see if it’s hers. Oh, they’re all black. Check them all! Is that it? No. Is that it? Try that one. Mine’s green. Army green. It’s a green duffle. Is that it? Look for a red ribbon. I can’t remember if I put one on or not. Is that it? Check that tag. Look for a black one. Excuse me, excuse me, I can’t reach it. Is that it? No. She told me what hers looks like. It’s black. Try that one. Mine’s green. A green duffle. Not hunter green, more like army green. . . .

The same thing that was wrong with me yesterday was wrong with me today, too. I have felt rather like screaming at various moments, which is funny becasue I had such a good time on vacation and have been feeling relatively relaxed.

Can men get PMS?

All I know for sure is that I will never fly again. Until next time.