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Fear of Flying


I am not afraid of the flying really. I am afraid of airports. They are too busy and too crowded and people are moving at unnaturally high speeds to get ….. essentially nowhere because though the airport itself seems to be in perpetual “hurry-up” mode, the airlines are not caught up in the same mad-dash whirl. Indeed they are on some time table known only to them. It’s like that episode of the original Star Trek where Kirk drinks the bad water and is sped up. He is able to move at such frightening speeds that the Enterprise crew appears to him to be standing still, and they can only hear the buzz as he passes by them. Passengers zip here and there dragging luggage behind them like small dogs, cutting people off as though they were in rush hour traffic on the freeway.

Between the check-in with its weary-eyed and palpably impatient staff and the TSA agents who treat you like special education students, the entire process seems geared to raising a person’s blood pressure as much as it possibly can before parking you at a gate to wait in the most uncomfortable chairs, if you are lucky enough to find one, for however long they please. Nothing at all about the flying experience is designed to put you at ease. The color of the terror threat rainbow is on a continual audible loop as are the reminders to attach your bags to your person to prevent them from sitting still too long and attracting suspicion (though as an aside, I have seen bags sitting unattended for lengthy periods of time every time I have been to an airport in the last three months and no one seemed in the least alarmed – except for the time in Idaho Falls and Rob and I were too busy ….uh…greeting each other to notice that my bag had been off-loaded.  The TSA guy had taken the bag off the carousel already.  “Anyone own this purple bag?”  Personally, I think the TSA guy was just jealous.)

Embarking is a tad stressful but mainly because it brings out the territorial natures in many people as they jockey for storage, leg room and armrests. Even though I know checking luggage is a gamble only slightly more reliable than a power ball ticket, it is worth it to avoid the seething hostility of the business class traveler. If you can’t be a bit more sanguine perhaps you need to look into a career change.

As for the flight itself, take-off is almost physically unpleasant but once up in air and level, it’s not so bad. My daughter has the same tendency to startle that I do, so I am a bit worried she will not take to flying well but she is very excited to see Rob, her big sisters and our new home. Hopefully the excitement will prevail.

I just want to be there and in Rob’s arms. I have mentioned before that as our physical separations get shorter my ability to endure them shortens as well. When you are ready to be with someone for what  “better be a damn long time” as Rob puts it, then you are ready right now.

Jusqu’a ce soir mon amour, jusqu’a ce soir.  Je t’aime.

Packing


Some people insist that the worst part of moving is the unpacking. I don’t mind unpacking at all. It is usually a quicker process because you don’t have to unpack everything all at once (or ever, as I found out when I was sorting through the totes in my basement of items yet unpacked from our last move nearly four years ago), and if you have any sense at all you are actually dealing with fewer things than you previously owned.

The worst part of moving, for me, is the sorting and pruning and unloading of stuff on friends, relatives, donation centers and total strangers as they pass by your home. Okay, the last part I made up. I haven’t, yet, tried to force any of my stuff onto innocent pedestrians. It is tempting though.

There is this old George Carlin routine about people’s stuff. How it proliferates and at what point does it go from being “stuff” to simply being “crap”. I know I pondered that question many a time last week when I was emptying previously unopened containers from the old house and our last move.

Will was very ill by this point and, to their credit, a dozen or so friends descended on our home on moving day to help me pack and move. As considerate as they were, I am still puzzled by the method behind the madness that day as I open boxes and totes to find the oddest things packed together.

There was one tote that contained nothing but two pair of work boots, a box of roofing nails, a Dr. Scholl’s insert – just one, an unused paint brush and a tape measure.

And there was more stuff of Will’s that I really want to label crap. The Carlin routine asks the question, “Have you ever noticed that their stuff is shit, and your shit is stuff?”

I never said a word about Will’s collections when he was alive. There is nothing inherently wrong with collecting things. I even continued collecting the quarters with the states on the back after he was too far gone to remember why he had started (to give to our child someday) or to even know what a quarter, or a state, was for that matter.

But, as I stood there confronted with the Budweiser Christmas mugs and an unopened box of wine glasses, I was just so angry with him. Not as much for dying as for dying and leaving all this shit for me to sort and give away. The sifting and repackaging can seem so overwhelming from time to time anyway without the memories and the responsibility of deciding what is important to keep for our daughter and what is not.

All this paring down has driven home to me the need to keep “stuff” to essentials and things that add joy or aid personal growth. There is no need to live in a big house and stuff every room with furniture and decor. A half empty closet is a good thing. Books, music and movies that fill the mind and soul are the best way to add that lived in homey look to a room. Gadgets should be useful and used often to merit the space they occupy. Furniture comfy. And things you no longer use or wear should be collected every so often and given to organizations that will see to it they end up with people who need them.

It’s funny, really, because I used to want that suburban lifestyle. Now I find that I am happier giving my things away than garage sale-ing them, and the more open space and empty drawers there are the better. Perhaps it is symbolic of new beginnings. The space and drawers are empty in anticipation of new memories.

The Passport is in the Mail


We applied for passports, my daughter and I, over 12 weeks ago now. Mine came last week after an intervention staged by my Democratic Senator’s local office. My daughter is “processing”. I think that is a State Department code word for something that probably has nothing to do with actually processing my daughter’s passport. Both passports were expedited at the same time, but for some reason hers ended up in “limbo” which is another official State Department term that I don’t care to speculate on in print. I am not really certain what would hold up the passport of a four year old, but have no doubt that it is something very important. At least I am sure that if I could make my way past the automated phone system without being hung up on that is what I would be assured by those working night and day to ensure the safety of all U.S. citizens by insisting that all preschoolers traveling outside the country have their own passport. There are, after all, a considerable number of short Caucasian female terrorists lurking who might try to impersonate any small child who ventures across the border sans documents.

 

Well, maybe not. I am still a bit fuzzy on the rationale behind children needing passports. I just know that we both need them to fly to Edmonton. The nice young staffer at Harkin’s office assures me that if Katy’s hasn’t arrived by Thursday she will walk to New Orleans and pick it up personally for me. It’s a nice gesture but a bit impractical. And, it’s not her fault. As I understand it the passport offices are woefully understaffed ,and the demand for passports was grossly underestimated. Add that to the fact that the people taking the applications at post offices don’t have truly accurate information on turn around times, and you have people like me. Needing passports and not having them in hand. Flights being rescheduled. Money lost. Time lost. Frustration all the way around.

 

I was angrier last week than I am right now. If the passport does not arrive than we will simply wait another week before Rob arrives to help pack for the move to Alberta. I would rather fly up this weekend though. Meet Farron, who has been quite patient. See our new home. Spend another weekend as a family. A couple. I think that though we do an awesome job with the distance, it is time to live the day to day in the same place. We are both tired of the pillow people substitutes and ready to synch up.

 

Fingers crossed that the Fed Ex stops at my house tomorrow with something more than a blender.