We’re on our way home from Disney today! In fact, I’m probably sitting in Shitter Row (the last row, next to the toilet) at this very moment. But don’t feel sorry for me, I like this crappy seat as it gives me plenty of opportunity to make awkward small talk with those waiting to use the potty, and that could lead to a new (yet questionable) friendship! I guess you could call me a “bladder half full” kinda girl.
Moving on, Today is my last (but just as special) guest post….
I first fell in love with Erin’s blog, Life in the Hood, when she wrote a post about getting a simple haircut…a simply hilarious haircut! You see, Erin has this uncanny ability to find humor in even the most mundane situations…and the not so mundane, like this recent airport experience:
_______________________
An early morning flight, flying alone with my babe, I understandably wished for no hiccups in the itinerary, no loud noises, and no sudden movements.
Passing one of those airport shops that sells a useless variety of items with whatever location stamped all over them, I noticed a sign with two college-age kids, a boy and girl, modeling sweatshirts.
For some reason, the way the boy looked, with his asinine sweatshirt and mediocre good looks and middle of the road smile, made me want to park my stroller for a second and jump kick that sign right there, right in that kid’s face.
It was that kind of morning.
So the tween cheerleaders blocking the flight information screens, squealing and practicing stunts more for their own benefit than the throngs of confused travelers passing by, did not impress me.
But I couldn’t help but watch as one girl, all legs, seemed to have discovered she could do the splits right then and there on the cold tile of Regan airport.
She just stayed forever like that, her torso bowed and balancing like she grew up out of the ground that way, her eyes wild with excitement and fear. It didn’t appear she knew what to do with this new skill or how to stand back up.
I needed her to stand back up, though, because I couldn’t peel my eyes off her until she did, and I hadn’t even made it through security yet.
But she seriously would not stand up.
With strength I didn’t know I had, I ripped myself away, somewhat irritated at the inexplicable presence of cheerleaders at 8 am.
It made me glad to go through security where people like cheerleaders and cheerleader parents who weren’t reserving their energy for a day of travel would be sifted out.
Imagine my surprise after getting through security when, instead of tired people waiting in their seats at the gate, there was a brass band. And instead of suits and ties with rolling suitcases exiting the jet way, there was a procession of WWII veterans in wheelchairs moving at the same speed as grass growth, and about fifty people lined up on either side, cheering and waving like these old wrinkles were floats in a parade.
How did all these people get through security?!
I thought of requesting a refund for the 9/11 security fee I had been required to pay, as my $10 obviously had not worked in keeping me safe from the terrorism of zealots.
But again, despite my extreme state of irritation, I couldn’t help but watch.
I wondered how on earth all these people had so much zest at such an ungodly hour, and then I spotted the reason.
And the reason was fear.
Their cheerleader, possibly Hitler’s sister, weighing in at eight pounds and wearing an American flag scarf, marched up and down the procession, waving an American flag like a orchestra conductor and attaching her beady eyes to anyone who dared for one second not cheer for her beloved veterans.
I almost felt I should cheer too lest she gouge my eye out with her flag, but I resisted on grounds that it was only the first leg of my trip, I had to save my energy.
Besides, it wasn’t my grandpa getting off that honor flight.
Yeah, they did a great thing risking their lives serving our country, but let’s not act like war is such a glorious thing that we let non-travelers clog airport terminals and assault the ears of citizens who may not have had any coffee yet in order to celebrate it.
Despite their obtrusive presence, the honor flight parade did make an attempt at being considerate.
Whenever an announcement came over the intercom, all cheering and tuba tooting came to a halt, replaced by, “Deborah Langston to gate E9, last call for Deborah Langston. E9.”
Until it came time to make an announcement regarding my flight.
“Flight 2974 with service to Charlotte-“ the woman started.
Before she had a chance to finish, someone with a louder speaker announced there was,
“Another honor flight ladies and gentlemen!”
Why were they having the parade right there in the airport anyway? There had to be a less annoying place to do this.
What was the rush? Were they worried some might not make it the twenty minutes it takes to exit the airport?
I finally did make it past the cheery people and news crew to board my flight. My jet way, it appeared, had been used for an honor flight earlier as banners still hung from the ceiling. I guess since everyone was in a wheelchair, it was no problem to hang them with three feet of clearance.
As I ducked under the banners and the music from the brass band faded, I thought of all the generations out there cheering on their grandpas, and felt grateful for my grandpas making it out of the war alive, because without them, there would never have been me, and without me there never would have been the precious little life I now pushed in his stroller.
It made me think of how many families were never started with the potential grandpas lost in war. And if there never were war, what would all those annoying people have to do so early in the morning?
And the question we really need to ask is, without war and all this hoopla, would that girl have ever realized she could do the splits?
Erin is Personal Offspring Life Manage and a stay-at-home-mom, though her offspring and she do not stay home much. Also, she is a world traveler, a mountain biker on a breastfeeding hiatus, and an English major. To use her degree wisely, she writes the blog “Life in the Hood“, which is written in English.
