The first thing you check, these days, when you enter an airport is your dignity.
With our not-so-far-in-the-distant-past obsession with masks, I can't help but wonder as I stand, barefoot and vulnerable, why we are not provided those little disposable shoe covers that snooty realtors demand so you don't sully their sale. Instead, I walk in the literal footsteps of the masses...my journey of a thousand miles beginning with a single staph.
I watch my meager bag of belongings undergo serious scrutiny with more meticulous care than my healthcare provider offers when going over an MRI. Sighing, I am not surprised when my backpack is diverted off the main thoroughfare onto a side, rolling exit for further questioning. This is not the time to bring up open borders, was my meditative mantra as I prepared to emotionally prostitute myself in exchange for the safe passage of two jars of horseradish. Imagine my daughter, Savannah's horror when she discovered that she'd moved to a land that mistakenly believed that horseradish sauce was an acceptable substitute for actual horseradish. We've been transporting it across state lines ever since. The TSA agent gingerly extracted the two jars of horseradish. "You can't take this past this point. "This is not the time to bring up fentanyl and human trafficking, I chanted in my head. I nodded solemnly, outwardly acknowledging the wisdom and seriousness of this situation. Thanks to my ever-present anxiety, tears shimmered but stoically refused to fall. "My daughter lives in California," I said, shakily. My agent was immediately sympathetic. I lowered my voice. "They think horseradish sauce is the SAME as horseradish." She looked at me in horror. "Hold on a second," she said, before disappearing. Within minutes, I was dispatched, barefoot, clutching two jars of horseradish like they were the family relics.
Finally, it was time to board. Brad and I wedged our way to our number range and then held our ground like we were floor brokers at the New York Stock Exchange following the opening bell. Why doesn't the airline provide us with numbered pinnies like at high school basketball practice? At least a sticker so that we all don't look at one another with suspicion and disdain as we fight for the front.
Without an assigned seat, strategy is seriously at play. Normally by myself, I hadn't noticed the diabolical placement plots because I would just throw myself at the first window or aisle seat I saw. With a partner, my eyes were opened and my sense of justice riled. "You can't call dibs," I said indignantly to one woman who'd filled the two empty seats on either side of her like she was at the opera. Brad unceremoniously pulled me down the aisle. "People going to the opera don't have to save seats," he told me, "This is a puppet show."
My husband scored us two aisle seats across from each other...close enough that I could reach into Brad's sharing-size bag of M&Ms.
Seat belt on and M&Ms in hand, I readied myself for my journey when tragedy struck.
I glanced at Brad who is MUCH better at hiding his emotions than me.
His eye-lid twitched.
Uh-oh. We were in real danger.
A smell...no...a stench of epic proportions encapsulated our section of the plane. I gasped. This could not be politely ignored. Brad sat, statue-still, stoic. I raised my hand to my nose, wishing for a fragrant hankie. On occasions such as these, one might opt for the nose discreetly plugged, mouth open method but I did NOT want that vapor to infiltrate my inner-being.
In the midst of battling that monstrous mist, I turned to face my husband. Our eyes met in a forlorn farewell. This was not how we imagined going out. The passenger on the other side of Brad leaned forward and I looked at him to include him in our pocket of pungent pain. Startled by his glare, I realized that he believed Brad or me to be the Ground Zero as the origination of the odor. Before I could dispel his mistake, an announcement was made about a trash collection run (preceding the flight). Relieved, I realized that the flight attendants were making a valiant attempt to rid us of the diaper or drawers that, if not removed, would doom the flight.
They tried. The empty trash bag moved slowly down the aisle, filled only with the silent supplications of my fellow suffering passengers.
Deflated but not defeated, the flight attendant returned, her hands folded in a sort of downward prayer. I watched as she blessed us, a steady stream of scented sacrament sprayed upon us...freeing us from this hellscape.
Brad and I made it to and from our destination safely.
Imagine our relief when we landed back in Buffalo without incident.
Unbuckled...we were patiently waiting our turn to disembark this broke-d*ck bus with wings when it happened again...
Sulphurous rotten eggs rolled up the aisle. The Easter Bunny's evil cousin dropped these black jelly beans of doom on the poor passengers trapped in the back. "Let me out," a plaintive voice from behind us pleaded. "Can you hurry up, up there?" another voice called out. Exhausted, I began to laugh hysterically. Brad shook my arm. "They're going to think it was us," he hissed. At this point, I didn't care. By now, everyone should know: Flying stinks.
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