GETTING THERE, NOT HALF THE FUN
by Patricia Misiuk

To personalize and modify an airline's slogan, I don't love to fly and it shows. I'm writing this column at a here-today, bankrupt-tomorrow airline airport lounge area (an oxymoron) where I buffer myself with a carry-on to my left and stinky "airport socks"­– more on that later– to my right.

Monday morning passengers are assured of the following: (1) 98 percent of all flights are scheduled to depart between 7 a.m. and 7:28 a.m., (2) you will age 27 months while waiting to pass through security and (3) the toddler in line ahead of you will upchuck on your shoes.

I joined the line for security two counties east of the airport and became fast friends with a couple who were waiting to board a flight for their 2007 ski vacation.

I had prepared for my trip in fast forward so neglected to pack my travel-size toothpaste gel in a see-through plastic bag. A nail file that could double as a rasp lurked in my pocketbook. I clearly didn't learn my lesson from my last trip when a security officer confiscated a pocketknife. The TSA agent merely shrugged his shoulders when I blurted the same weapon had passed without incident through two other airport security checkpoints.

A few million heartbeats later, I reached the maze of mayhem where a TSA agent scrutinized my documents and ordered me to remove my shoes. After the death march through a machine that bombarded me with puffs of air, I plopped on a bench, removed the socks that had trudged through athlete's foot alley and slipped on clean replacements. Once I reached my destination, I'd launder my "airport socks" and degerm them in an autoclave.

On the monorail to the departure area, I felt like a sardine flanked by a gal with garlic breath, lip-locked lovers and a hygienically-challenged sports jock wearing a Speedo that left nothing to the imagination. Needing a caffeine jolt as I trudged to the gate, I plunked down half a day's pay for java that could have stripped paint.

Finally, like cattle being prodded through a squeeze chute, we boarded. While I shoehorned myself into a kiddie-size seat, a grandma hauling a giraffe as tall as its real-life counterpart tried to cram said animal in the overhead bin where things always shift and often self-destruct during flight.

After takeoff, I read a newspaper. Airlines, in an effort to save fuel, will fly at slower speeds. OK, they removed magazines­– yeah, they weigh– and meals. The next to go– seats– will give passengers that strap-hanger subway feel. The airline I was flying increased my flight five minutes. That means I'll have longer to endure the kid off his Ritalin who gets his jollies by kick boxing my seat back.

My connecting flight leaves in two hours, or perhaps two and a half hours when computed in the new slower-than-snails airspeed. We'll have the normal sequence of events: the oxygen mask, life vest and emergency exit spiel, snacks we need the Jaws of Life to open and lastly, dissonant ring tones from electronic gizmos the moment the wheels hit the Tarmac. When I deplane, memories of garlic breath, stinky socks and 12-foot giraffes will fade as I segue back into life on terra firma.

Next week I'll return home. That means air travel...again. But in the meantime, I'll decompress and relax. I just hope my week of R & R will help me remember to store my toothpaste in a Baggie, pack clean "airport socks" and exchange my nail file for an emery board.