This Little Agitation of the Brain

On a recent business trip to Orlando, I was forced to take a middle seat assignment due to a last minute booking of the flight.  Since the flight was direct of no more than a couple hours, I figured the middle seat wouldn’t be too terrible.  It was well into the afternoon therefore I shouldn’t need to sleep and thereby can do without the window seat.  I had a recent book in one hand, Sudoku book in the other, and my laptop full of work in case I was truly bored.

I locate my spot easily and find myself pleasantly seated between a man and woman of average-to-small size, which is also a plus when occupying the middle seat.  Both are in their 60s.  As I slide down into my seat and reach awkwardly underneath my rear to grasp the seatbelt, the lady seated next to me leans in and says “I am so glad you are not two.” 

It takes me a few seconds to run this statement through my brain a couple of times to try to associate some meaning with it.  Nope.  Nothing.  Just as I am about to write the comment off into the “must have heard her wrong but too much time has passed really to ask her now what she actually said, nor do I truly care” vault in my brain, I hear the piercing screech of a toddler from the seat behind me.  Just as quickly as the screech is released, the father of the child calmly says “okay if you want to do your own seatbelt then you need to stay in your seat.”

I glance across the aisle from me and see a mother and her two children.  I peer ahead of me and see a 10 year old’s head bobbing away to an iPOD.  I stop moving to listen for a few seconds and hear nothing but high-pitched little voices bubbling with energy.

“Gosh,” I say aloud in revelation, partly to the woman seated next to me (whose previous statement I finally understand in context) and partly to myself, “there are a lot of kids on this plane.”

Now, I consider myself a considerably insightful woman with above-average sensibilities and decent intuition and perception.  However in some cases, such as this one, I find myself so unaware of the pink elephant in the room I surprise myself.  At this point, I was seated at the couch, having tea with the pink elephant and offering it a Madeleine cookie.  God bless the woman next to me who introduced me to the pink elephant: “Well of course.  This is the plane to Disney after all.” 

I instantly feel stupid for not coming to this realization myself and even went so far as to let out an embarrassingly audible “ohhHHHHHhhhhh!”  All the time I’m thinking I’m hopping a plane to a conference, the rest of the world knows I am on the plane to the Happiest Place on Earth. 

This flight was unlike any flight I have ever been on.  No one bothered to lower their voices or even be considerate of the amount of noise they might be making.  Grown men would gush “Oh sweetie!  Look!  We are in the clouuuuuuuds!!!”  Flight attendants waited patiently as children opted for a granola bar, wait no, peanuts, wait no, Sun Chips, wait no, granola bar again as their snack.  More importantly, other passengers waited very patiently too.  Somewhere in the plane someone was always crying and at any given time someone was in the aisle letting their toddler go walkabout. 

I sat back and watched.  Flying solo with nothing exciting at the end of my trip waiting for me aside from a business conference, I felt so very out of place on this plane.  Not that I had any desire to go to Disney at that moment, but I felt as if I was the one sorry person on the plane who didn’t have fun things to do.  Even the couple on either side of me was going to Orlando, not for Disney, but to meet up with family before embarking on a cruise.  I was the kid who forgot to get his field trip permission slip signed.  I was the hitchhiker on the side of the road who caught a ride on a yellow school bus. 

I didn’t mind the atmosphere on the plane by any means, mind you.  Nor was I saddened by my feeling out of place.  I found it fascinating.  I felt as though I was watching a Discovery Channel special on the effects of Disneyanticipationeuphoria on children and adults alike.  The excited energy was contagious and the little childcare teacher inside of me wanted to talk to all the kids about what they were most excited to see.  I sat back and absorbed the sights and the sounds.    

As the giant yellow school bus came to touch down, the children yelped out “whoa!” and “ouch!” and “that was fun!” with the initial bumpity bump of the landing.  “Ladies and gentlemen welcome to Orlando” the flight attendant announced into the intercom.  The people on the plane cheered and clapped in response.  Any energy that had been fueling through the cabin for the past two hours had increased exponentially.  People were excited about Mickey and everyone knew that they were that much closer to getting hugs from him.

I hopped off the yellow school bus while thanking the bus driver for the ride.  As I strolled past the families walking in one amorphous blob after another all with different suggestions as to how to get to baggage claim, I smiled.  Having bottled up all of that natural energy, I went off to my conference with the intent of uncorking that energy at a later time.  Watch out you stuffy conference goers!  I come armed with a natural high and pure happiness and excitement in a bottle. 

People camping out all night and getting trampled for a Playstation;  While waiting in line for a Playstation in Putnum CT, people are held up at gunpoint, one of whom was shot when he refused to give up his money;  A 15-year old sliced his classmate with a pocketknife at school after a hacky sack argument;  OJ Simpson’s book and interview (please don’t buy it or watch it);  Kevin Federline – as a whole;  A colleague found bestiality to be an appropriate lunchtime topic of conversation today;  On a recent flight across country I was offered a pillow and a blanket…for $5;  The fact that I created a username on abc.com so I could vote for Emmitt Smith (who won, woohoo!)

On the flipside, the soup kitchen where I volunteer helped 60 families last week, I took a walk with a friend in almost 60 degree weather today, I’m having a weekend with my sisters and my mother, my best friend is marrying the love of her life, and Vin Diesel correctly used the word “antithesis” in an interview.  Not all is wrong with the world!  J

Something happened to me between the ages of 20 and 21.  I can’t really explain it.  All I can say is that during that year, it became increasingly more difficult for me to keep my weight down, I couldn’t consume the portions I used to, and I inexplicably began crying at EVERYTHING.    I knew something was dramatically different one day as I watched the movie My Girl for the 50^th time.  I wasn’t really even paying attention as I had seen it so many times, but I found myself gripped at the funeral scene, where Veda runs to Thomas J’s casket asking him if he wants to go play in the woods.  As she screams for his glasses and how he can’t see without his glasses, her father pulls her away.  Before I knew what was happening, I was sobbing uncontrollably, and wondering what the hell was wrong with me.  The waterworks have been flowing at the drop of a hat ever since.

I used to worry about my easily triggered emotions.  These days, anything really can set me off.  A romantic movie, a Hallmark card, a particularly sappy commercial, a father playing with his baby…  What are even stranger are the unlikely sources of my tears.  Case in point:  I cannot watch the movie While You Were Sleeping all the way through without crying.  Romantic comedy…COMEDY…yet I find myself weeping throughout.  The romantic side of me cries when people fall in love however the scene that makes me cry the most is Lucy’s wedding scene.  Standing before a priest with a man she is to marry, she confesses to her fiancé’s family that she was never engaged to him, that it started as a big misunderstanding, and that she continued to lie about being his fiancé because she fell in love with all of his family.  She goes on to explain that she had gone from being all alone, to becoming a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, and a friend and how she just didn’t want to let it go as she has not had that in so long.  (Note:  Welling up right now in the middle of Panera…) 

The thing that gets me every time about this scene is the fact that I cannot even slightly imagine my life without family.  The very thought of other people who don’t have family makes me so very very sad, and makes me so grateful to have been blessed with such an amazing and large family.  As of the posting of this entry, my family consists of no less than me, my mother and father, my two sisters, my grandmother, eight uncles, nine aunts, 26 first cousins and five second cousins which comes to a grand total of 54 people.  And that is just on my father’s side…  Couple this clan with my mother’s family and we are easily pushing over 100 immediate family members. 

My family is nuts.  They are loud and nosy and crazy and pushy and there is no telling any secrets.  My family will stuff you with food one minute and tell you that you are getting fat the next.  My family requires a buddy system on excursions.  My family will tell you to wait until you are thirty to get married and then bug you about not having a boyfriend.  My family follows superstitions and traditions that are embellished each time they explain them, that are followed some days and then not on others.  My family will guilt you for moving far away and then will tell you how they have always wanted to visit where you live.  My family will sing karaoke until three in the morning and will harass you until you sing a song.  My family will force you to kiss “aunts and uncles” you don’t know, who aren’t really related to you, and then be so surprised you don’t remember this “uncle,” who is really your uncle’s best friend’s godfather’s business partner who took you to Chucky Cheese when you were five.  My family will tease you and tickle you and pinch you.  My family will ask you if you are driving yet when you are twenty-one years old.  My family will offer to “take care” of anyone who has done you wrong, so much so that you are afraid to ever mention anyone’s name in a negative light because you are never quite sure of the definition of “take care.”  My family will pour you drinks all night and then never let you forget that you were drunk at a family function. 

My family will cook your favorite food just for you, and make sure you get the first plate of it.  My family will slip you gum/candy/money when the other cousins aren’t looking and then do the same for the others when you are not looking.  My family will tell you to go eat while you are lying in a food coma, and when you don’t get up, will put together a plate for you to take home.  My family will open their doors to you at any time of the day, any day of the year.  My family will give you whatever you need without you having to ask.  My family will make you laugh to the point of tears.  My family will break their backs working so that your life can be that much easier.  My family only wants what is good for you and will do whatever they have to do to get it, even if it means criticizing you or angering you.  My family will put a roof over your head, fill your stomach, lend a compassionate ear, and extend a helping hand, no matter now much you have screwed up or have denied them in the past.  My family will make sure you get through school and will do whatever they must to make sure you succeed.  My family will hold you when you are crying and love you when no one else will. 

I love my family, and have always been very proud of my roots.  It wasn’t until the recent passing of my grandfather though that I have come to realize how much I truly love my family, how proud I am to be a part of it, and how very blessed I really am.  If being this blessed with this many people means puffy eyes and wadded up Kleenex during Sandra Bullock movies, so be it!  It’s a very small price to pay for 53 people rooting for you every minute of every day.   

In loving memory of my Lolo, who with my Lola taught me the importance of family and the definition of unconditional love. 

“Oh f************ck!”

Out of all the possible two-word combinations I can utter first thing in the morning, these two are undoubtedly my least favorite.  A morning christened with this expression at 6:32 a.m. can only mean one thing:  I have woken up infinitely later than I have expected or needed to.  Such was the situation a few weeks ago for a trip to Chicago for my cousin’s wedding. 

My sisters and I had planned our trips considering many minute details; my older sister and I were traveling together out of Hartford and arranged it so that we would be arriving and departing on the same days and times as our younger sister who was flying out of NYC, resulting in an efficient one trip to and from O’Hare for our parents.  I would be picking up my sister at 5:45 a.m. so we could be at Bradley International by 6:30 a.m., leaving us with a comfy hour cushion before our 7:30 a.m. flight, getting us to Chicago with plenty of time to primp ourselves for the ceremony at noon. 

Jump ahead to the morning of the wedding when those two words are flying out of my mouth.  It is 6:32 a.m. and not only should I have already picked up my sister by this hour, we should be at the airport and comfortably nestled in an overpriced parking spot.  I am fully clothed in the outfit I wore the day prior, sprawled out on the living room couch, where I evidently fell asleep with the television on, with my cell phone and unset alarm clock in the bedroom.  I jump to my feet, run to my bedroom, and check my cell phone…7 missed calls.  Hmmmm.  This morning certainly does not look like it is off to a good start.

Fortunately, my sister knows me well enough, not to worry that I was in some horrific, 15-car pile up on Route 9 while on my way to pick her up.  She knows me well enough to assume that I simply fell asleep on the couch having not changed out of my clothes, and have forgotten to set my alarm.  Furthermore, she knows not to wait and has already driven herself to the airport in time for our flight, which I will undoubtedly miss.  Smart girl.  Something I cannot say about myself…

I have learned quickly in life that being pissy and moany about issues you cannot control gets you nowhere, except to a state of extreme irritation.  Therefore, all I could do at this point was laugh at my stupidity, hop in the car, and hope to get on the next flight.  Which is exactly what I did.  Long story short, I got on the next flight, arranged with my father to have him pick me up while my sisters and mother got ready at home, got dressed for the wedding in a Bradley Airport bathroom, met my dad at O'Hare ready to go, drove straight to the church, and ultimately beat my sisters and mother to the ceremony.  Alls well that ends well in a travel day first thought to be unequivocally crappy.

Seeing as that I had another trip planned shortly after to CO, I was concerned that I would find myself in a similar situation, and I really could not count on being as lucky as I had been for the Chicago trip.  I am happy to report that I made it to and from CO this past weekend, with no first-thing-in-the-morning utterances of any unfortunate two-word expressions.

These two trips, tied along with my first trip of the year to Mexico have forced me to reflect on flying as a whole, and on my own, personal flying behavior.  There is something about travel, airports, and itineraries that bring out a side of me that I find interesting and perplexing at the same time. 

On any given trip, my typical airport activities include: 

-  Weaving a path from vacant seat to bathroom to food to vacant seat and repeat.

-  Eating Chinese food, transported on a plastic tray that inexplicably has stickiness on the underside no matter where I pick it up.

-  Consuming ridiculously priced grande, sugar-free vanilla, soy lattes.

-   Wedging myself and my luggage into unreasonably small bathroom stalls with automatic everything (FYI, pet peeve…toilet flushing automatically while still seated).

-  People watching, people watching, and more people watching.

-  Searching for power outlets and, surprisingly, not finding many in convenient places.

-  Finding myself irritated by people not paying attention to where they are meandering.

-  Catching myself irritating other people by not paying attention to where I am meandering.

-  Searching around for cool ringers to download on my cell phone, but finding $2.99 to be an unjustifiable price for extravagance.

-  Eavesdropping. 

More interesting revelations about my own flying behavior and philosophy I have determined over the years that I have been a card carrying frequent flyer:

-  I don’t like dilly-dallying, even if I don’t have to be anywhere for hours, which leads me to semi-rush about the airport only to sit for long periods of time.

-  I have an inherent fear of moving sidewalks and the possibility of tripping over my own feet and luggage as “The moving sidewalk is coming to an end.  Please look down.”

-   I recognize the ingenuity behind automatic toilets, sinks, paper towel dispensers, etc., yet, as stated previously, still find myself annoyed with them.

-   Airports lead me to rationalize eating crappy food and paying whatever price for it.

-   I love children, but I must have nothing but the deepest respect for all people who travel with small children as it looks horribly aggravating and cumbersome…tack on a stroller and/or car seat and/or multiple children and you automatically should be entered into the canonization consideration pool.  I, therefore, smile and ogle at the adorable babies until they start fussing at which time I thank whatever powers that be that I am not the person traveling with that child.

-  Traveling is the one time I justify spending money on completely, mentally-devoid reading material, such as In-Touch magazine and Life and Style (basically the same magazine), both of which are only $1.99 and thereby are even more justifiable for my Hollywood gossip fix.

-  I am effectively embarrassed by my magazine choices and do my best to not reveal the cover to passersby.  In addition to being embarrassed, I feel guilty for my vapid reading material selections, hence the copy of Newsweek in my bag purchased at the same time.

-  I daydream about other places to which I wish I were going and have hallucination-esque moments of myself rashly hopping on another plane, destination anywhere.

-  I impulsively find it necessary to start random conversations with strangers next to me to share airport/travel war stories, or to tell them that I used to live in/work in/visit the city where they are going (which I have discovered via eavesdropping).  Just as impulsively as I have started the conversation, I evidently tire easily of the interruption of my own reflection time once they reciprocate.  I then seek alternate reflection locations, leaving the person I interrupted only to imagine that it must have been something that (s)he has said.

-   When I am forced to sit at the airport, I feel smarter.  I attribute it either to the cultural and social enigmas I am invariably absorbing through osmosis, or to the fact that the airport is just a bigger, fancier, more expensive Wal-mart, filled with ignorant people being loud, annoying, arrogant, and berating their kids in multiple languages, and thereby leaving me to feel nothing but smarter.

-  I will at one time or another during a trip daydream about being seated next to my future husband.  Not that it would matter much, as my body has already conditioned itself to fall asleep the second it hits the window seat and to keep itself in a perpetual state of sleep throughout the entire flight, leaving it quite difficult for any man sitting next to me to get to know me, let alone fall in love with me. 

There is just something about an airport that brings out the most idiosyncratic of behavior from me.  It is all part of the traveling experience; an experience I love dearly.  As oddball as some of my behavior may be, and as irritating as some traveling experiences can be (either getting to or from the airport, or while ensnared in the depths of any given city’s airport), I will continue to consider myself a traveler, both worldly and domestic, and welcome whatever quirky mannerisms, and two-word expression trip-starters that emerge. 

I cannot recall the last time I decidedly made a New Year’s resolution, due to the fact that, like so many others, I never kept any resolutions made.  To save myself the irritation that ultimately came with my inevitable failure in completing any of my New Year’s resolutions, I gave up doing them altogether quite some time ago.  Instead, I seem to just have the perpetual, year-round, universal resolutions of eat healthy, exercise more, read more books, etc. 

This year, however, I have found it resoundingly imperative for me to make this one resolution, in order to truly feel good about myself in 2006.  It is a most broad resolution, but a resolution nonetheless:  In 2006, I resolve to be more knowledgeable.  As I said, it is a most broad statement, but it is highly necessary for me to make a conscious effort to educate myself in whatever topic comes my way, be it politics, history, music, art, car maintenance, current affairs or the predatory behavior of scorpions (which I watched on the Discovery Channel this morning). 

One may wonder why I feel that this aspect of my life needs such improvement that I should break my longtime habit of not making resolutions.  However, there was a definitive moment of clarity and revelation in which I realized that it was essential for me to state this resolution so emphatically. 

The other day, I was exposed to a bit of the background of the Clarence Thomas/Anita Hill scandal.  Up until this exposure, I knew the scandal was in regards to sexual harassment charges Anita Hill made against Clarence Thomas.  However, the other day, I learned all sorts of specifics.  I learned that Clarence Thomas was in the process of getting elected to the Supreme Court, and that Anita Hill was a law professor who worked for him at the Equal Employment Opportunities Commission.  I learned of the disgusting details of her accusations, most disturbing of which was her account of him asking aloud in the workplace, “Who has pubic hair on my Coke?”  Ewwww.  These were such details of which I have to admit I was unaware until recently.  The fact of the matter is, I realized that this is just one of a million tidbits of which I should be more informed.  While I was happy to gain this awareness, the thing that troubles me most is the fact that I learned these details while I lay on the couch, watching “I Love the 90s – 1991” on VH1.  What a sad, sad, sad, testament it is on my life that I can be so uninformed of a highly publicized event that I gain awareness of it, not only from television, but from VH1’s campy, spoofy series of “I Love the 90s,” (which is a horrifically addictive series, by the way, as are its counterparts, “I Love the 80s” and “I Love the 70s”).

I consider myself a fairly well-educated woman.  This incident has forced me to have misgivings regarding that belief.  I am off now to feverously indulge myself in the Encyclopedia Britannica, back issues of Time Magazine, and the Mensa Research Journal.