I absolutely hate to fly.
Ironically, I used to dream of traveling for a living – possibly as a photographer for a glossy magazine based in some exotic location -my wanderlust visions were enough to make Walter Mitty look dull.
There was a point in my young career when I was on a plane at least twice a week and I loved the adventure of traveling to a different city each time, renting a car, staying in a hotel, eating in a new restaurant, meeting a new prospective client /slash/friend.
Back then, the airport delays were minimal and the Ford rental cars didn’t have navigation so I would always allow myself “getting lost time” as I attempted to concentrate on the road while glancing at my printout of MapQuest’s archaic directions which were pretty much guaranteed to lead me the wrong way.
This was before 9/11 and security lines didn’t require pedicures.
So when I had to fly to NYC this week for a quick business trip, all my insecurities of the danger of modern travel came out. The anxiety crept in a few nights before – but I relied on my never fail outlet of handing stress: A few COOKIES.
(Ok, ok, ….an ENTIRE BOX of Oreos – but no one was looking so it didn’t count )
It always amazes me when people in front of me in security line act SHOCKED when told they need to remove their shoes.
They act as if they haven’t traveled in a decade and give off a nasty attitude of just how appalled they are with the inconvenience of it all- at the same time they try and pass through 12 bags as carry- ons.
My words of wisdom to them:
GET OVER IT.
For me the airport is just another opportunity for blog material.
(And Lord knows there’s a plethora of good material in Florida)
What still never ceases to amaze me is how people are DRESSED when they show up to the airport.
The booty shorts and tiny tanks (seriously? Am I the ONLY one who is absolutely FREEZING on a plane??) And of course I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the flip flops -which just means they have to walk BAREFOOT through those nasty mangy germy security lines.
Really?? WHY????? I won’t even walk around my own house barefoot.
But the best by far are the 20 something( I think the term is millennial???) hungover partyers who simply can not figure out what they are doing, where they are going, and what day it is. Somehow they always get the seat next to mine. (And the other side is the screaming baby on the bosom of the stressed out mama).
When you need to leave your comfort zone make sure to pack plenty of Valium.
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