Flying is my least favorite pastime. The stress of the long lines and insecure departure times, the tiny bottles of liquids packaged in plastic bags, taking off my shoes and walking where many have walked before, walking three miles to my gate with the hopefully-not-too-large-carry-on I didn’t have time to check, the Guantanamo-like security officers who are so damned concerned with your belt buckle, not to mention the fear of flying itself.
A plane that is “On Time” at 8:15 might end up leaving at 9:45. Did I mention I’m awake at 8:15??
In times like these it is impossible for me not to recall some of the most frustrating and terrifying airline scenes in the films I have loved. I wish I didn’t remember that early sequence in Home Alone where the family is running frantically through the airport as I’m standing stationary in the security line, ten minutes until boarding. I desperately fight back the image at the end of Fearless as bodies are torn apart in a burning crash. And I grit my teeth in pure hatred when the flight attendant informs me that my backpack must be completely stowed under the seat in front of me to avoid impended disaster, and I remember Ben Stiller in Meet the Parents, fighting the inane stupidity of airline rules/traditions.
Were the internet not $17,987 dollars an hour here at the airport I would post these frustrations. Instead I’m typing angrily away in Word, glancing up once in a while at images of Sarah Palin’s 2009 calendar, and wishing I were a disapperating Hermione Granger and in San Francisco already.