Moxie’s Musings – Leavin on a Flying Petri Dish
I used to love to fly (on a commercial airplane, not my broom – that’s a different story). Flash back: 1972, LAX. Mom & I are in nestled into our giant seats, a grateful six rows forward of the smoking section. The stewardess brings us each a tray with a gentle warning: careful, the ceramic plates are hot. The napkins are cloth, the utensils are real – and for the first and last time I am tempted to slip the cute little mini-fork-and-spoon-set into my pocket. My mom was a Hot Tamale – not just for her Hispanic beauty, but that temper too. One sideways look from her and my future as a serial utensil bandit was over. We were all dressed up, flying coach to northern California. What an adventure.
Flash forward: 2014, DIA
I am wedged into a tiny window seat, sweaty from sprinting across the airport to catch the connecting flight. The flight attendant brings us each a stern warning: turn those cell phones off NOW. The napkins are paper, the inked-on logo on them smells bad, and the only utensils I have for the pretzels are my now germ-coated fingers that have been pawing the back-seat pocket magazine. And the seatbelt. And the tray table. And TSA seized my 3.2oz sanitizer, so I’m hosed. Next to me is a tiny octogenarian about the size and complexion of a stalk of celery (I think in foods), with soft grey curls on top. She has three children and four grandchildren, she coos. Do I have any children? she asks. “Just my husband,” I reply. We are all sardined in, flying coach to south Texas. What a pain in the ass.
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