Last week’s travel schedule consisted of numerous flights as I traversed back and forth across the country. The first leg of the trip began before dawn and ended during the wee hours of the night.

As a frugal consumer, I’ll take the Red Eye, the Stink Eye, or even the Evil Eye if I can save a few bucks. Occasionally, it’s worth it. But sometimes it’s imperative to get to that final destination stat.

When I realized that I am on a first name basis with gate agents, flight crews, and terminal employees, I knew I was spending too much time in airports. Some flight changes are brief. Longer layovers leave me feeling like Tom Hanks in the movie, The Terminal.

Like the movie, airport living can be unpredictable and precautions must be taken to survive. One rule is especially helpful: Never try a new restaurant before a flight. Regrettably, I did not pay heed to this vital travel tenet and decided to throw caution to the wind.

A trendy salad establishment drew me in with colorful, healthy options. The restaurant was populated with trim hipsters and the salads were cleverly named after exotic places. I watched my salad being made as it passed through a chain of qualified salad specialists, each one enthusiastically adding ingredients with a flourish.

There were ingredients that I had never heard of, but everything was wholesome, organic, and locally sourced. I was proud that I was making good nutritional choices.

I was wrong.

Unbeknownst to me, I had just bought a non-stop ticket on the Bubble Gut Express. I had a four-hour layover, which is exactly how long the salad took to ferment.

By the time I boarded my flight, my tummy began exhibiting all the symptoms of a catastrophic malfunction. I squirmed in my seat while passengers attempted to defy physics with bags too large for the overhead bins. No one was in a hurry and plodded along languidly in a cluster of confusion.

The longer the delay, the worse I began to feel. When we finally pushed away from the gate, the urgency of intestinal trouble became evident. There was an unstoppable storm brewing within, but it would be another thirty-minute wait for the plane to be de-iced.

We will take off soon and you’ll be fine, I reassured my stomach that was now churning and rumbling like a simmering cauldron. I gritted my teeth, tightly crossed my legs, and began to pray.

My seatmate was friendly and under normal circumstances, I would have been engaged in affable conversation. But my bubbling gut now demanded my full attention. Clearly, I was no longer in the movie The Terminal. I was in the movie Bridesmaids. Like Melissa McCarthy, Kristen Wiig, Maya Rudolph, Wendi McLendon-Covey and Ellie Kemper, I had food poisoning. I was going to die.

Inasmuch as I tried to think about other things, I could not. I began to sweat profusely. Panicked screams came from my intestines as I fumbled for the air flow vent above my seat, twisting it to the highest setting.

Unfortunately, the scant airflow neither quelled the pain nor slowed the desperate surge of perspiration emanating from every pore in my body. In a bold move, I lunged for any ventilation control within reach, opening other passengers’ air vents as well.

Finally, we began to taxi. There was hope.

Normally, I opt for an aisle seat but didn’t want to pay the extra charge. I was trapped. I looked out the window into the darkened night—the reflection of a desperate woman with a tortured expression looked back. I busied myself thinking of the aircraft model, quickly calculating the altitude needed before I could bolt to the bathroom. My mind raced as I planned my escape.

Immediately after takeoff, the plane began bucking and jerking. A gravelly broadcast followed as the pilot announced with certainty that we were experiencing severe turbulence. There would be no beverage service and for our safety, we would need to remain seated for the duration of the flight.

“For the love of all things that are holy!” I shouted in response.

There was now a far greater threat than being tossed around by turbulence. I needed to take action. We had almost reached altitude and almost was good enough. I went up and over my seatmate like an Olympic pole vaulter, rushing to the back of the plane with resolute speed.

The flight attendant was strapped into the jump seat next to the bathroom. As I ran past her, I mouthed the words I’m sorry before securing my new seat assignment with non-stop service to punishing pain and regret for consuming a salad in Seattle that won’t soon be forgotten.