Posts Tagged ‘40’

When you’re voluntarily imprisoned in an airliner – buckled up and cinched in, seatback and tray table in the upright and locked position – one’s prevailing reality can change quickly. While you’re optimizing the miserly 11 cubic feet of space you’re allotted, seemingly trivial matters can swell into a wave of overwhelming stuff – a tsunami of tstuff that’s difficult to tsurf. Normally, a stable mentality can calmly navigate these matters. Then there’s me. Who, in this instance, managed to elevate what should’ve been a trivial custodial chore (tossing away a sliver of trash) into a Force 5 psychotic event.

My Tale of Airborne Angst

There’s something pacifying about having limited choices when airborne. You understand and are even comforted by these boundaries – like how a dog feels in its crate. I’m content to inhabit this space where you don’t have to contend with nagging nuisances. You’re just flying from point A to point B. There’s nothing to fuss over as you relax into your airborne limbo. And due to these pleasantly straitened circumstances, your life becomes simpler and naturally decluttered – like a cerebral cleansing where all the detritus of the day is blown away into the purifying Jetstream.

In these high-flying situations of clarity, little things mean a lot – a whole lot. And, in this case, a whole lot became way too much. At least it did for me. Because within this soothing swirl of airborne simplification I began hatching conspiracies where none existed. My susceptible mind became perturbed and, much to my chagrin, a bite-sized quibble, grew into an inedible hunk-a, hunk-a burnin’ hysteria. Allow me to explain.

Either I’m getting older or the flight attendants are getting younger. Here is a picture of my FA Gale. Was she “fer me” or “agin’ me?” Let’s examine the situation.

Once upon a time, on a long flight to Maui, I had finished my Snyder’s Pretzel snack (good) and now I had that nasty little bag to discard (bad). Somehow, I failed to notice my flight attendant’s garbage run, as Gale darted down the aisle like a speedy donation collector at a big box church. How could I miss her billowing white Hefty bag signaling it’s time for the flock to donate their wretched refuse? Then again, maybe it was a Glad bag and not a Hefty bag. It all happened so fast I couldn’t be sure, and lord knows I have enough baggage of my own to deal with. Of course, the need for certainty on such a piddling issue like this Glad vs. Hefty baggage meant only one thing: I was deep down a rabbit hole, and my susceptible mind was now officially perturbed. For all I know, the garbage bag Gale whisked by me could’ve been a Kirkland brand. Yup, I was down a rabbit hole deeper than Alice in Wonderland. Pull up Hardiman, pull up!     Read the rest of this entry »