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BOOMER’S JOURNAL
ZEN and the Art of Air Travel

This being my only column in May, I can’t let the month go by without a tribute to mothers. On Mother’s Day this year, our priest said that all women are mothers. He went on to explain that there are biological mothers, and mothers of the future, of course.
But he went further to include all women, whose instincts and nature are to nurture. I saw that a great deal as I worked with a majority of women in my career in educational and human services. I saw that in
my childhood, with a wonderful Mommy, Grandmothers, and Aunts who always showed great love.
And I most closely see it daily, hourly, minute-by-minute in my four daughters, three of whom have their own kids, but are Extra Moms to each and every one of their nieces and nephews.
But most assuredly, I see it in The Lovely Jill, who amazes me daily with her wonders as a Mother.What an incredible blessing these and all women are to us. Happy Mother’s Day, every day of the year.
Switching gears here, who likes flying? Raise your hand, Okay, both of you, you can put your hands down now.
I am not a fan, nor is my dear wife. Sure, you can get from Point A to Point B in less time than it takes to play a round of golf. At least for the places we travel to. But what I am grousing about is the overall experience, from the time you rush to the airport to the final luggage retrieval at your destination.
We always get to the airport way ahead of our take-off time, but it seldom helps with the stress of pre-flight folly. Once you get the boarding pass, which can be from low A to high B, even though we check in within seconds of each other on the ‘24hr prior’ app (explain that, and how even if you pay $20 bucks for automated check in, you still can get a high B number… explain that, if you can), you have to remember which pocket to put it in, preferably the one with our ID, and keep the juggle of the carry-on down to a minimum.
Then, no matter if there is no one else in the TSA line, I still get jumpy when the guy starts shuffling the plastic bins at me. It goes like this…“No sir, the laptop comes out of the case. No, can’t put it in same bin. Yes, all things out of pockets. Even tissues. And the belt, of course.”

Now I know the shoes thing and my cross medal, which they always call a necklace. A side note here: couldn’t the TSA make some revenue if they put some advertising in those prison-gray bins? They are so boring. How about a NIKE Swoosh for shoes, yellow for Burger King…
“Hungry? Get a Whopper…
just three gates to your left!”
‘Nervous? Don’t worry!
Best Bloody Mary in town,
just two gates to the right!”
The deal with the belt…wow. Nearly undressed, I have to hold up my jeans as I hobble into ‘The Way Back Machine’ for a free CAT Scan.
“Raise your hands above your head and stand still, please.”
Which I do and then have to grab for my pants. “Hands above your head, sir.’’ “Okay, but my pants are fall…,” and so it goes for two tries until the poor TSA guy says “You’re good sir, come on through.” Probably thinking, this guy is so confused he can’t possibly do anything dangerous on the plane.
So then as I’m just about to grab my non-creatively adorned bin, the guy in front of me reaches practically into my shirt to get HIS bin, which is of course is so much more important than mine, and he rushes off to redress after crossing the no-doubt toe-fungus-infected floor barefooted. Oh well. I try to rationalize, maybe he’s running late. Or he’s just a jerk. Either way, I retrieve my belt, laptop, wallet, backpack, medal (necklace!), shoes and yes, even my tissues and aspirin, then I find Jill and we redress.
And we are through with the hardest step so far. BP at about 160/110, pulse 115. A few deep breaths later, and we set off in search of our gate, which can be anywhere from the next one to the next county.
And this is before we even get on the dang plane. Fun times.
So what is your favorite part now?
I’m okay with the takeoff. Even pretty cool, like maybe going to Mars. At least how I would imagine it. And even though I am in a chair smaller than the bucket seat in my ‘61 VW Bug, I try to settle down and take a doze. But the kid behind me is kicking my seat every 30 seconds, the little bell keeps dinging, I gotta tinkle and the commode is always busy, the flight attendant’s voice sends me up a wall… I am a pain, I know.

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