Page 5 of Winging It with You

Once again.

“Speaking of,” I say, unlocking my phone to the email and handing it over to him, “have you ever seen something like this?”

Mark adjusts his bag on his shoulder and takes my phone mid-stride, reading aloud the email that’s already seared into my brain. “ ‘Mr. Fernandez, it’s come to our attention that you’ve exceeded the maximum flight hours allowed by the Federal Aviation Administration…’ ” He looks up at me before continuing, his lips drawn into a hard line like some disappointed father. “ ‘…for thethirdquarter in a row. Upon further review of your flying history and in coordination with the airline’s human resources department, we are mandating a three-week administrative leave, effective immediately.’ ”

I can’t tell you the last time I took leave, let alone three weeks’ worth.

Come to think of it, as I’m standing here in the middle of the terminal, I can’t even remember the last time I had fun. Honestly, after twenty-five, what even is that?

“Go on,” I say, tipping my chin in his direction. “Read the last little bit there.”

Mark cocks an eyebrow but lowers his gaze back to my phone’s screen and continues reading. “ ‘After consulting with our Aviation Medical Examiner, and in alignment with the airline’s policy to assess the physical and mental well-being of each of our pilots…’ They’ve involved the Aviation Medical Examiner?” he asks, and I can hear the surprise in his tone.

“Oh, just keep on reading,” I say, crossing my arms as I lean against the wall.

He narrows his eyes. “ ‘…we are additionally requiring proof that during your administrative leave, you’ve taken thenecessary steps to prioritize a healthier work-life balance and your mental health fitness.”

Mark hands me back my phone. “I’ve never heard of anything like this. Have you?”

“Nope.”

His brow furrows as he clearly tries to wrap his brain around this predicament. “How the hell do they expect you to provideproofthat you’re prioritizing work-life balance?”

That’s the part of this that’s bothering me the most.

I could easily spend the next three weeks locked in my apartment. Well,easilyis subjective, since all this so-called self-care is a foreign concept to me. But I could at least try. Hell, I could probably use the extra sleep. But this? Thisproofthey’re asking for? I have no idea how I’m going to pull that off.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll take up manifestation or start a YouTube channel and document every second of my day.” Is YouTube still a thing? Who knows.

“You could…become a plant dad,” he offers with an unamused expression.

“I think the phrase you may be looking for is plantdaddy. But sure, let’s go with that. I could do that.” I pause momentarily. “Well, my friend…since I suddenly haveallthis free time on my hands, wanna grab a bite?” I say, nodding my chin in the direction of our favorite spot just ahead.

“Of course,” Mark says, smiling as he dodges a very frazzled-looking family. “But it’ll have to be quick. I’ve got two more flights today and I need to close my eyes before my next weather briefing.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you!” I shout as a gaggle of kids weaves their way between us.

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If I were a bettingman, I would never put money on an airport-terminal TGI Fridays becoming a time-honored tradition of mine.

But here we are, seated at our usual spot at the bar—yes, we have a usual spot—about to eat our weight in mozzarella sticks, something Mark and I have gone out of our way to do every time we pilot a flight together. The airport seems busier than usual today, which only adds to my frustration about the whole grounding thing. People are flying and those flights need pilots and instead of doing what I’m best at, I’m being forced to hang around.

I watch Mick place down a plate in front of the blond man who’s been chatting his ear off across the bar. “Hey, Mick! When you have a moment, can we grab an order of mozzarella sticks?”

Mick looks exhausted, which makes sense because it’s pushing closing. “Sorry, boys, the kitchen’s closed.”

I’m sorry, what?

“Hold up,” I say, sitting up straighter on my stool. “I just watched you deliver an order to that guy over there.”

Mick looks back at who I’m referring to, eyes rolling and shoulders slumped. “Yeah, well, he actually got the last batch, so take it up with him.”

“Oh, come on, Mi—” I start, but he puts his hands up, cutting me off.

“Look. I don’t know what to tell you—we’re short-staffed, the fryer’s been on the fritz all week and no one from corporate seems to want to do anything about it, and I need…I need to get out of here.”

With that, he turns and heads back through the kitchen doors, seemingly unworried that there are a few remaining customers who I’m sure want to close out their tabs.

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