I boarded the plane, huffing and sweating but beyond relieved to have my “entertainment bag” back on my person, squinting my way along the length of the aircraft. I found my seat only to discover someone already sitting in it. It was a rotund, moon-faced woman wearing a knit cap that was too small for her head. “Excuse me,” I said, tapping her on the shoulder, very gently. It was obvious that the woman was faking sleep, her eyes shut tight as she no doubt prayed to her gods with all her might that I–the window-seat occupant–would not show up for the flight. Her brow furrowed, which meant that she was feeling my taps on her shoulder, yet she kept her eyes shut. She didn’t want to open them to the reality that she would now have to move to her true seat–the middle seat, a.k.a. the most terrible seat in the world–now that I was here. Side note: Who invented middle seats anyway? That obviously very cruel and very short, very narrow-bodied person is hopefully relegated to sitting in a middle seat in hell for all of eternity.

The woman finally “woke up,” and after about a million sighs and harumphs, hoisted her body into the middle seat where she belonged. “Thank you,” I said. She responded not with words, but by claiming the shared armrest between us as her own, planting her rotund elbow there like an explorer plants a flag into the top of a mountain. I was in no mood for any bull**** that day, so I firmly planted my elbow next to her elbow, like a second explorer planting a second flag into the top of the same mountain.

And there our elbows stayed, pressed uncomfortably against one another, locked together like a pair of rabid dobermans in a deadly stalemate, both of us gritting our teeth (at least I was), unwilling to give ground. As the plane lifted off and we left Vancouver behind and roared eastward into the December sky, and as the g-forces pinned my shoulders to the seat, I noticed a man’s newspaper a few rows in front of me. I realized that, from a distance of approximately 10 feet, I could read the headlines over his shoulder.

After seven long, surreal days, my vision–to my great surprise–seemed to finally be starting to clear.

I teared up a little, making my vision blurry again. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t a mistake, I thought. Maybe it will all turn out OK after all. For the first time in a week, I was flush with optimism again. As the captain turned off the seatbelt sign, I uprooted my elbow from the armrest. The Great Holiday Elbow War of 2011 was over for me. I had conceded defeat.

The woman, who smelled of curry and Kleenex, promptly hogged up the entire armrest, letting out what sounded like an “I WIN” sigh. I didn’t care. I was too busy peering at the world around me. I was too busy not squinting for the first time in days. When the flight attendant brought me a complimentary apple juice, she did something that I always read as a positive sign, a sign that the world is going my way again: she gave me the entire can.

Suddenly, my holidays were looking up.

Next up: it’s level 2-1. This is the very first in a new tier of levels known only as “FOREST.” Level 2-1 opens with Mario riding on the back of a hustling, oversized ladybug, making this the most dynamic opening of any level in the game so far. The level features plenty of forest-y elements–oversized ladybugs (which could be friend or foe, or something between the two; you never know with this game), large Redwood-style tree trunks, etc.–that work to inadvertently make the level look like Fred, Barney, Wilma and Betty, who had a very cute voice and who I was always extremely attracted to for reasons that I will never completely understand (even at a young age, I felt certain that I was a more suitable match for her than Barney was), are all about to drive through here on their way to Rock Vegas, a.k.a. one of their preferred vacation spots.

As Mario rides atop the ladybug, the level continues to expand around him, scrolling left and right and up and down. All told, level 2-1 features approximately four screens of gameplay real estate. I exit the ladybug–watch your step–near the small trampoline icon on the far right side of the level. I board the trampoline, and give it a few bounces before realizing that, no, it’s not going to help me much. I climb a nearby ladder, just to my left, and approach a narrow elevator-like contraption that rises and falls through the top of the screen.

At this very moment, a new creature–which appears to be a genetic cross between a ladybug and a rhino–barrels down a nearby wall. I attempt to leap over it, and botch the timing badly. The result: a quick game-over. Suddenly, I’m back at the beginning, riding the hustling ladybug again…

This time I decide to try a new approach, since the right-side/trampoline seemed to be a dead end. I climb the ladder in the middle of the level and discover a platform that features one of those knob-handled levers like I’d seen in the pre-Forest levels cutscene. I give it a push. Not one but two bridges extend horizontally across the screen. Ha, ha! I grab the key on the far left side of the bridge, carry it to the nearby locked door, and boom, level 2-1 is now in my rearview mirror.