The attendant drops a miniature
food box onto my beige tray.
It is shorter than my plastic fork
— I can't help but notice.
It arrives with a three-by-five
yellow index card
(bigger than my food)
onto which an affixed
mailing label screams:
GFML.
"Gluten Free Meal."
It means. Allegedly.
My seatmate shoots me
a nervous side glance.
In absence of their own
knowledge and curiosity,
I am branded a leper.
And can I blame them?
Honestly, the moniker
GFML fits the moment
just a little too well.
I stare down with dismay
at the diminutive white bento
holding what purports to be dinner:
five single green peas
thirteen shriveled brown raisins
one-eighth of a green bean
(don't eat it all! You'll get a belly-ache!)
perched atop, what looks like,
at most, to be 200 grains of rice.
I am fairly certain that
Eloise's turtle Skipperdee,
that hardshell Plaza stowaway,
receives more as a snack than this.
Did I mention that
everything is cold?
It's cold.
Fridge cold.
Congealed, dry rice.
No sauce.
No flavor.
No oil.
No seasoning at all.
Unless, that is, the aroma
of recirculated fridge air counts.
GFML
I stare at my left;
I look forlornly to my right.
Each of my neighbors
are basking in the glow
of their steaming hot entrees;
one beef stroganoff and noodles,
the other honey-gingered salmon.
My eyes return to my own tray.
"GFML"
It now starts to make sense:
It must actually stand for:
Go F--- My Life.
The airlines are sending
a neon light message
to anyone who dares to click
"Gluten Free" on their ticket.
A paper airplane to the eye
would be more subtle
than this disregard for comfort,
this destruction of joy.
This assemblage of sadness
tells me to: Pound sand.
Or better yet,
eat it. Here you go!
So much for upgrading
— at great expense —
to Economy Plus.
I'm a mere plebe back here.
After staring
at this inequity for
several long rough minutes,
I hit the call button.
When the uniformed man
stops back at my aisle,
I beg.
I plead.
I cry for literally anything
that can sustain my life
until touch-down
at our destination.
"Sorry, that's all we have!"
The flight attendant says.
Too cheerily, I'll add.
Lesson learned.
If you are hoping:
for taste,
for dairy
for dignity,
let alone sustenance,
you will need to pack it yourself.
I feel like a pet
that has been disciplined.
I stare down
at my food bowl.
I am a bad dog.
I enter a long silence.
I wait for my pride to deflate.
I hope this can
settle my empty stomach.
I grind my way
through the gritty rice.
I swallow the scarce hard peas.
I nibble on my allotted
fraction of a green bean.
I masticate
the inexplicable sultanas.
And then I order
three ginger ales, no ice,
to gain some caloric intake.
Anyone who thinks that being
Gluten Free is for fun, think again.
No one would subject themselves
to this injustice if not necessary.
If the airlines
really want to know
where their profit is going?
I have a suggestion.
All that jet fuel planes use
is due to moving the
extra weight caused by
filled-to-the-brim backpacks
and carefully crammed carry-ons.
Heavy hand luggage are hauled
by all the traumatized,
skeptical, harried and wary
dietary restricted guests
who have to pack ten pounds
of allergy-free snacks to simply
guarantee safe passage.
As my card says,
GFML.
