Time was when flying was a social event. People actually dressed up to fly. Women would don their church clothes and high heels, perhaps even a hat and a pair of gloves. Decorum ruled the day.
Not any more. I’m lined up in a modified cattle chute, deprived briefly of shoes, jacket and other valuables. Toothpaste, pen knives and jars of jam are confiscated, to be enjoyed later by security guards. Then the patdown, in places where I didn’t know I had places. An odd moment of bonding, mercifully short. I then make my way to my gate in another terminal, a trek of some length, up and down escalators, wielding my carry-on which threatens to twist out of my control and send me tumbling down those metallic stairs. Flight delays are the norm but at last we board. Refueling issues this time. I shoehorn myself into a skinny seat, sandwiched in between two other constricted humans. We struggle valiantly to protect our personal space and avoid touching, let alone oozing, into each other.
Gone are the days of a meal, or at least a facsimile of one. Rubbery chicken wasn’t anyone’s favorite but it was a gesture. Now we wait expectantly for our token bag of Kornnuts (14; I counted) and our 5 oz. glass of whatever. “Is that all there is?” Like Patti Page, I wonder. Only then, and only briefly, are we allowed to lower our masks. It really is a challenge to eat through one of those things. And once again, I have forgotten to pack a few snacks.
The six hour flight goes on and on. Should I embrace the bathroom adventure? Yes. It’s been awhile. I extricate myself, inconveniencing the stranger next to me, swaying down the aisle as I try not to grab shoulders. Everyone now knows where I am going, but why should I care? We all have bladders. The relief is worth the risk.
Finally we glide, hopefully, down to earth.Flying just ain’t what it used to be.