The sounds of the scales on the saxophone and the morning bustle of everyone getting to their gates for take off is like the countdown beginning on a New Year’s Eve night. Next you think they will be spraying aromatherapy to bring the travel crazies down.
Belts are pulled, boots taken off and once through the ritual of the security, with both hands jammed full, you look for the place to put yourself back together; redress.
Did anyone notice my mismatched socks? Wearing the same seem to be overrated. Pants are falling off, dads struggling to hold them up while carrying a young infant; I have to laugh. I would have offered to assist if I didn’t look the same.
They should design some type of cart for the other side when you have so many people, (The Walton’s Family comes to mind) to transport through security. It would probably make their lives easier and more calm.
Normally I don’t have to travel with my cane often but when I do I notice so many other struggles. Each of the attendants tell you to you to walk down this hall to gate 250, you are currently at one, you are looking at it as if it is a marathon, and you can’t help it, you look down at your feet.
Occasionally, (okay two times) I have been offered a ride and I just took them up on it last night for the first time; then the dreaded escalator, a cane, a roll bag and me is the next part of Survivor.
Hmm, logistics have me stumped each time with no free hand. I throw the bag on and grab hold, it’s like being on the merry go round hanging on for dear life. I wonder does my life insurance and full policy cover injuries from it? Note to self to check it.
It is a full adventure in its self at the airport; my hat is on and I am ready. I hit the washroom, no paper towel as I slide off the cane to the hand dryer. I decide I must go enjoy my morning cup of Java and then think how the heck am I going to carry it. I should design a roller bag with a cup holder attached for those like me.
I sit and drink most of it and then become the most talented hand juggler. One guest decides he wants to walk on my feet; oh sir please look while walking or it may become hazardous to your health as my cane jabs you. I picture myself as a Kill Bill character and it passes, peace is with me again.
It is the moment where you see all the stupid stuff people do and I always think oh dear, please tell me I don’t do that. I etch it in my brain.
I read a story written by a person this morning on how they feel travelling, as a fat person. (This person’s words not mine.) I read it and thought wow we still have a lot in common the anxiety, the not sleeping before hand the struggle getting into the plane, the trip. It is an event that lasts longer than the flight.
It truly is sad that we are all so judgemental. I saw the looks last night. Those that looked me up and down, again, yes I am stylish and make this cane look good.
I let my assistant know where I am and ask if everything is good. She responds so far all great. Perfect I tell her I am at the point to burn something down inside so best I keep my pyrotechnics show to myself.
This is when I decide that if I make it home by dinner I am golden, it will be wine time. It is 8am and flights are cancelled, broken down, and delayed.
I see the book store and I hear the self help books calling my name, off I trudge, hobble or whatever you can call it. I say good morning to Robin Sharma, ask how he is today, and wander as I do to find the book calling me.
There it is, it is a cover of a hawk, and there is a reason I am drawn to it. I purchase it and will read it this weekend.
I hit the early bird rollers down the hall to the plane and get myself settled; turn on my music and the words start down the wavelengths on the greatness of flying, how I can fly. It is another sign and one I will pay attention to.
I believe I know the meaning and am excited to see if I am correct.
I arrive home, and have designed my version of the Uma Thurman dance with my cane. Victory is mine.
“What if I fall? Oh, but darling what if you fly?” E.H.
Love always the Pyrotechnics, Kill Bill, Woman in Process