There is nothing more annoying, I know, than someone whining about jetlag. “I’m so tiiiiired,” they complain. “I’ve been on vacaaaation, and now I’m so tiiiiiired.”

It just feels like the worst combination of whining and gloating.

So I won’t do that.

I will, however, gripe a little about our wretched flight home, which featured:

• middle seat for John, behind woman who kept her seat reclined for the ENTIRE FLIGHT
• seats in nearly the back row, where we were apparently sitting on the engine, it was so loud
• strong evidence suggesting that the person who had occupied my seat before me had horked all over the floor, making it less than tempting to shove our carry on bags down there
• a drinks cart that ran out of diet coke before it got to us
• an hour delay, plus 25 minutes of slow circling in the air before we landed at O’Hare
• no movie. (Stupid MD80s. Worst planes EVER.)

All of this is a long way of saying: my hair is a mess, I’m not wearing makeup, and I’m going to work in jeans.  I hope they’ll forgive me.