Friday, September 5, 2008

And the spirit struck me...

I'm in the plane, approximately 20 minutes away from takeoff. I have an aisle seat, per my request, and I feel like the only person not adding to the indistinguishable chatter in the cabin.

Last minute prep work went more or less as expected. Around 6:00 p.m., I realized that whatever wasn't done wasn't going to get done--okay, someone just farted; that was disgusting--and I should just get ready.

I thought I'd feel differently once the day arrived, but I don't. There's a vague sense of leaving a former life behind, of beginning a new chapter in the never-ending story of me, but mostly I feel exactly the same.

I told my Dad goodbye on my Mom's cell phone. I told my Mom goodbye at the airport and was surprised to see her cry. As much as my parents antagonize me, I never try to hurt them; it bothers me that something which is so important to me makes them so sad.

While waiting in the airport lobby, I cross-stitched and started reading a history of patriarchy while trying not to feel like caricature of a spinster.

The flight attendants are passing out eye masks, earphones, and a dinner menu with several impossibly unpalatable options now. And I just remembered I forgot my camera.

3 comments:

Miss AJ said...

Good parents always cry when their children fly away even if it is just for a holiday. My kids go regularly to visit their dad and it is a hollow feeling when they pass through the door and they leave my life for a while even though it means freedom and wild play for me.

Treacle said...

:-)

raidingparty said...

Ahh, flying food; as a vegetarian, I had a bothersome choice. It seemed like whenever I ordered veg beforehand, there was a pasta option (but they insisted that I eat bulgur wheat salad because I ordered it), and whenever I didn't, the choices were beef or tuna. Of course, it's rare to find food on a flight anyways, but it still happens internationally.

On my way to France, I didn't order, and so the choices were beef somethingorother and salad nicolaise. I thought the salad would be the least offensive option, but I ended up having cat-food-flavored burps for the next few hours.