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Airport Story: Clear the Air

October 23, 2011

Flight home. Twenty intense and incredible hours with college friends, some I haven’t seen in twenty-five years. Airport is jammed. As I stand at the gate, because the flight is so full there are no seats in the waiting area, I am right behind two women who have met at the gate. They don’t know each other, but they are bonding – bonding in commiseration over the injustices in the world. And not big ones, which are certainly plentiful and worthy of lengthy discourse. These are the indignities they have suffered at the hands of the airlines, the local police, and the barista in the stop-n-sip in concourse L. They have also bonded in their choice if travel togs – both are sporting velour outfits. One in a merlot-stain-on-berber and the other in black-lung-xray gray. Now I can bitch and moan about picayune stuff like anyone else. I go through bouts of it and rail against badly placed speed bumps, ill-conceived restaurant seating and the like. But, compared to these two, I’m a piker, a rank amateur. It’s times like these when we should all be carrying a pocket-sized spray can of Perspective. A quick spritz on these two would help the kvetch miasma return to less than terminal level.

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From → Not Bus Stories

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