home sweet home, but only for a heartbeat

The flight home is a night flight. This means that after the meal service, most of the passengers would fall sleep. They sleep, yes, but we don’t. After twelve or thirteen hours of working, through the night, bogged down by jetlag and fatigue, I stagger into my apartment. My body is screaming for sleep. The trouble is it is 9:00 in the morning, and my unit is bathed in bright, cheery sunlight.

I have become accustomed to sleeping on almost every type of bed available, but nothing compares to the reassuring comfort of my own bed. I could sleep for a week, but the trouble is I only get three days at home before my next trip. After deducting all that sleep-time, walking-around-like-a-zombie-time, washing-time, drycleaning-time and repacking-time, I am left with no time for myself.

I hit the pillow with a thud. My body says ‘sleep’, but my brain doesn’t agree. Even with thick curtains helping plunge my bedroom into darkness, my brain still argues with me, ‘I know it is light outside. You can’t trick me!’

Like almost every flight attendant I know, I use sleeping tablets by the bucket load. I wish I didn’t have to, but I do.

The tablets I take now knock me out – for four hours exactly. Sometimes four hours is the right amount of sleep time, sometimes it is not.

When I wake up, I contemplate my limited time at home and my not-so-limited chores to do. There are bills to pay (particularly my expanding credit-card debt) fish to feed, family to phone, friends to catch up with, rotten food to throw out and fresh food to buy (which has to be thrown out again after I get back from the next trip).

What’s the point of buying food at all? I decide to not go to the supermarket. At least that is one time-consuming task I can strike off my list. Eating out is easier anyway.

Keeping a track of what goes into your fridge and what needs to come out of it can be such a pain. I can’t remember the last time I bought a container of milk and didn’t throw out most of it; unfortunately they don’t sell fresh milk by the thimble. My freezer is full of food I have tried to save. Usually, by the time I find something I need in the freezer it’s already time for me to throw it away.

For my current brief interlude at home, I decide that the freezer will be opened only if I have to get some ice for a stiff gin and tonic. But not tonight though. Not on my first day home: I am very careful not to drink alcohol on the first day I’m back from a trip, for I am already in a zombie-like trance and having a drink will only put me over the edge. The other thing I need to be careful about is what I eat. I get so hungry after a trip, and although my body craves sweets or junk foods, my conscience and my waistline cannot tolerate the guilt of giving in.

The real disadvantage of eating in as many restaurants and cafes as I do is keeping tabs on how much fat and carbs I consume, and of the highs and lows of my glycemic index, depending on what kind of diet I am on at the time (and I am always on a diet). I often joke that on my last fourteen-day diet the only thing I lost was fourteen days.

I usually want to make time to go to the gym, but never really find the time in the end. I get to spend only a few days at home, after all. I even signed up for a six-month membership package at my local gym, desperately hoping that I would find the time and the energy to get myself fitter. Predictably, I’ve never set foot in there. However, I will eventually end up paying for another six months – guilt, New Year’s resolutions and optimism will kick in.

Some of my flying friends fight real battles with weight. It is a lifestyle that does not lend itself to routine. It is a lifestyle that only lends itself to convenience and compromise. Some crew’s bodies handle it, some don’t. I am lucky that I don’t put on weight easily. Unfortunately, ‘easily’ is not the same thing as ‘never’.

Some hosties make huge sacrifices to look the way they do. A flying friend of mine, Sue, is what I term a gym junkie. She eats the right things, follows a strict exercise regime and forces herself into some sort of routine in a job and lifestyle that really doesn’t allow it. At the end of it all, Sue looks sensational.

Sue lives on her own and is extremely strict about her schedule, and as a result has become very selfish with her habits and her time. She has no problem getting dates, but she cannot keep a guy. Her body might be flexible, but her time is not. No man will put up with such a rigid woman no matter how good her body is. It is not just guys who get annoyed with Sue, but friends as well. If you want to hangout with Sue, you’ll have to fit yourself into Sue’s timetable.

On the other hand, I make a real effort to keep in touch with my close friends. Yet, there are times when I realise that I haven’t seen a friend in months, or even in years. I make calls, I text, I email, I tweet, I facebook, and I even leave nice and long voicemail messages. I do all I could possibly do, yet to get face to face, particularly with another flight attendant, is not an easy task.

After sleeping for the obligatory four hours and after my mandatory wake-up coffee, I potter around my apartment in a jetlagged daze and do all the menial chores I need to do. I contemplate ringing a friend, but I just don’t feel like talking to anyone. Not just yet.

The one major flaw in my plan of not going to the supermarket to buy food and opting to eat out is that I actually need to go out and eat. That means getting dressed and actually communicating with people. I would rather wander around my apartment, dressed in my flannel pyjamas and comfy slippers. It’s horrible that we have to eat to survive.

If I have to eat, then I may as well try to be social at the same time. I phone Helen, my best friend, who couldn’t care less that I am verbally incoherent and have a preference to be a hermit. Although she is not a fellow flight attendant, Helen understands what I am like after a trip and is non-judgmental about it. That’s probably why she is my best friend.

Thank god, Helen is free for lunch. As dysfunctional as I feel, I always look forward to catching up with Helen. The one thing I try to do around her is to not talk about my trips so much. To boast about the exotic places I go to, the lavish sights I see, the people I meet and all the shopping I’ve done to a mum who has two kids, a hard-working husband and a crippling mortgage would be selfish and inappropriate. Especially because I know Helen is jealous of me. ‘I wish I could stay in a five-star hotel just for one day. No kids. No stress. I would get room service. I would get a massage. I would be in heaven,’ she often tells me, and I know exactly what she thinks of my life.

I always point out to her that my job and lifestyle are not as glamorous as she thinks it is. She can see for herself the physical signs of jetlag and fatigue on my body, and how difficult I find it to cope with my exhaustion. She can also see for herself that make-up and five cups of coffee are no disguise for the weariness that seeps through every pore of my body.

Yet, Helen does not like to hear about how tired I am – nobody likes to hear about it for that matter. What Helen does like to hear about are some of my travel stories and about any celebrity encounters I’ve had on my trips.

I put on my new D&Gs, my new boots and one of my new tops and make my way, almost by instinct, to our favourite little café. One of my little quirks is that if I buy something new, I have to wear it straight away.

‘New clothes? Very nice. I love the boots as well. Oooo! Who are the jeans by?’ chirps Helen when she walks in and sets eyes on me.

I am not surprised at her observation skills. After all, she knows me well enough to know that I wear something new every time I see her.

Trying not to rub in my good fortune too much, I tell her a small and white lie. ‘I think they are Dolce and Gabbana, but they are only cheap Asian knockoffs. You know, copies. They’ll probably fall apart next week.’

I’ve used such white lies on many occasions. I’m sure she doesn’t believe me, but appreciates my intention just the same. Poor Helen would love to have a wardrobe 1/100th the size of mine, but I know that grocery shopping, school fees, the dog’s vet visits and making sure that her kids have clothes that fit take priority over her own fashion wants.

As we sit down to our regular table she asks her usual question, ‘Did you have any celebrities onboard this time?’

I almost want to make up something so as to give a glimmer of excitement to the mundane existence she thinks she lives. One white lie at a time, I decide, and so I shake my head. ‘No, not this time.’

While Helen envies my lifestyle, I envy hers. She has a loving family, normal sleep patterns, a normally functioning body clock, set routines, a nice house and the world’s cutest dog.

All I have is a goldfish and no normality at all.