Traveling Ramblings...

I like to think of myself as an experienced traveler. I can pack like a champ. I always perform the security strip-down (shoes and belt off and in bin. laptop and quart-size zip-top bag out and in bing. walk through in stocking feet with a smile that is never, ever returned by the TSA gangstaz) in record time, and I NEV.VER. stop to re-dress myself at the end of the machine - always efficiently walking a little further in my stocking feet (because I always fly in sturdy shoes that require socks) before stopping in my tracks and preventing everyone ELSE from retrieving their belongings as they come out of the machine.

I sound all high and mighty about it, but I try REALLY HARD to be a responsible and non-annoying member of the flying public, and I'm proud of my efforts.

There was a time when I'd go to an airport and the check-in person would ask me where I was going that day, and I'd have to stop to think about the answer - because I was never even sure what city I was in.

I usually even dress up. Sometimes because I'm going straight to a work "thing," but usually because I find I'm treated better when I do.

However, if I'm gonna be trapped in a metal tube for nearly nine hours overnight, appearances be darned. I'm going for comfort. I'll admit, this is a recent phenomenon. Mostly because, these days, the airline employees are probably going to treat you like crap no matter how you look. Oh, and because I stopped caring.

I enjoy observing my fellow passengers. The prim lady in her mid- to late-50s, dressed in pressed jeans with a starched blouse under her Ralph Lauren sweater, with not a hair out of place, who meticulously drapes her Mountain Hardware jacket (which I'm pretty sure has never seen neither a mountain nor any hardware) over the back of her seat as protection against the infamous Airplane Cootie. The young couple with the cute baby who take great pains to ensure that their child is not "that kid." The know-it-all passenger who strikes up a conversation with the communting female pilot - he's telling her how "it" is and she's very nicely telling him he's wrong. Love it.

Recently I found myself connecting in Houston (home of this fine woman). I had a fair amount of time - about 30 minutes - and I arrived at my new gate precisely at the "boarding time" indicated on my boarding pass. Lots of people were sitting in the gate area, so I settled in and waited patiently for the boarding process to begin.

Then I hear them announce, "All rows, all passengers..." - boarding isn't about to START, boarding is nearly FINISHED (30 minutes early)!! I hustle aboard, completely off-guard, without having a chance to complete my usual pre-boarding routine. You see, I'm the passenger who smiles calmly at the flight attendant while boarding, finds my seat, and in one smooth motion, stowsmybagsmovesoutoftheaisleandsitsinmyseat.

I felt a little less bad than I normally would for slacking on this particular day - most of the passengers had already boarded, so I wasn't clogging the aisle and preventing people from getting to their seats. Of course, the aisle and center of my row were already aboard - I walked up just in time to hear them talking about which of them was going to move over to the window seat. That's prime sleeping territory, ladies. MINE.

I very nicely indicate that I'm in seat F. They stand. THEN - and ONLY then - do I realize I'M NOT READY.

Crap.

I need to pull a (very efficient) smaller bag out of my backpack (because I didn't care what I looked like today, remember?) before I put the backpack in the bin. Now, everything I need for the flight is in that one smaller bag, so it's not like I need to fish out a book, my iPod, my knitting, chapstick, tissues, and a billion other objects of randomness. It's just one thing. Anyways, I apologize for the delay and make a lame excuse about being a bit tired from my long overnight flight.

The younger lady (I assume the daughter of the pair, and she's probably in her 50s) says, "It's alright."

Only she says it in a tone that lets me know in no uncertain terms that it's NOT, in fact, alright.

Whatever, lady.

Now, I can't decide if her reaction is spurred by the fact that I look like a sloppy college kid (no doubt an appearance she would not approve of for her own daughter, who probably wears "slacks" on casual Friday), or maybe it was because I thwarted their premature window-seat grab...and let's face it, I was rolling up with the full glory of overnight, trans-Pacific flight funk...or maybe it was the assumption that I'm one of those "once-a-year" types who doesn't know jack about flying and, bless her heart, she's actually experiencing the WORLD...

...either way, I'm tempted to go all Cameron Frye at Chez Quis and live up to the stereotype implied by my outfit (in my defense my pink hoodie TOTALLY MATCHES the stripes on my Adidas sweatpants).

Instead, I pull out my knitting.

I like to keep 'em guessing.

Plus the older lady of the pair (the one who DIDN'T shoot me a dirty look) is totally adorable with her slacks, perfectly matched earrings, and her Wordy Gurdy from the morning paper.

Who knew the Wordy Gurdy was such a promoter of peace!