“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a very tall human?”
The six-foot seven plus TSA agent smiled at me. “Yes, ma’am. I get that I lot.”
“He was a really talented basketball player—” the second (not 6’ 7”) TSA agent added before his colleague handed me back my bag.
I wished them both a lovely Easter and made my way into the (not quite eerily empty, but almost) LAX terminal.
The People of the Airport may not have appreciated my conversation with the friendly folks of the TSA, but I loved getting to make small talk with people I didn’t know. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a tremendously social person – truly – but after spending an entire year not making small talk with… well, anyone, I was overdue. I have so very many words that have built up that I could probably take elevator rides with strangers for eight solid hours and not run out. I have no intention of testing this theory though, owing to my not being a tremendous fan of elevators. I’m more of an escalator kind of girl.
We just left California for the first time in eighteen months.
Eighteen. Months.
I don’t think I have stayed in California for that long since I moved here from New York at six. Even Arizona has felt impossibly far away lately, so when we found out our friends were booking a last-minute Easter trip to one of my favorite places – Seattle – we jumped on the bandwagon…hard.
My husband is a smart man. A smart man who loves to travel. He knows that the best way to get me to do something that makes me nervous is to capitalize on a Moment of Impulse. So, that is how I find myself on a plane wearing a mask and trying not to focus on the consistent fear that I will die due to lack of oxygen before we land in Washington.
Here’s where you find out that irrational things make me nervous – all the time. I really do understand that humans all over the world have been flying on planes with masks on for the past twelve months and, as a people, we are fine with it. We. Are. Good. That little bit of logic can’t seem to find a permanent place in my brain though…no matter how hard I try.
The kids are fine – annoying, but fine. Jason is fine. I’m fine. The dude in the back row that won’t stop coughing is (hopefully) fine. All. Good. Here. And yet? I am still worried. Sigh.
You know what would help? Some small talk with the flight attendants. Thank goodness for them no one is six foot seven. I can’t imagine what that would be like. My guess? They’d be fine too.
