How to Travel II

Every single time I've walked off a plane I've felt like death. This time, I marched off like a human being. The secret? Don't eat.   

Hold on, hold on, I'll explain. 

I'm a suicidal eater; if they put it in front of me, I'll take it, so the first time I heard this was a revelation. It was from a cousin of a cousin, who goes to Israel regularly for her father's yartzheit. She's also like me, happiest at home. On earth. As in the ground. 

I experimented with the idea, which was to refuse supper but accept breakfast. Nope, still felt like death. On this past trip I only sipped water. 

Not for me, thanks.

I hopped off with such energy and verve—both coming and going—that I scared myself. 

Maybe because one's body is going at 500 miles an hour, one achieves a state of suspended animation. Maybe airplane food is prepared by the devil. All I know, I felt dope, an experience which has never yet happened. 

But the body is no machine, and after sailing over my threshold upon my return I got the shakes. Oh, jet leg, you sneaky thing. Dizziness, world-twirling, disorientation, the works. 

For the sake of my skin, I avoid the sun. To be honest, the sun sucks the life out of me. My brother-in-law, I joke, is solar-powered; he drapes out beneath that yellow orb for hours and arises refreshed. I can't move if exposed to strong sunlight for less than ten minutes. 

Yet like a hungry flower, I planted myself in the sunny kitchen, drinking it in. My symptoms eased along with the exposure. My office desk has no window, which I think set back my recovery. If circadian rhythms are out of whack, your body will be coaxed back into shape from the sun's rays. 

I also took melatonin . . . when I remembered to. 

I still required the ministrations of my acupuncturist to fix me up, but for those leery of needles . . .