Two Weeks

Author's note:

The following is the beginning of something a bit quirky. Thank you for clicking the link, and I hope you enjoy.

I am always stopped for the 'random' security check at the airport. My father suffers the same problem, although that is more understandable. He could be from any of a myriad of terrorist factions, with the deeply tanned skin, wild hair, and 'don't even think about touching me' stance. Mother always factors in an extra thirty minutes for security time.

On a semi-related note, they always get stares in restaurants. She's even had a woman ask her in the restroom if she was on a blind date. Don't get me wrong. Dad is a handsome man. People just see what they want to see. But anyway.

I've never understood it. I'm perfectly harmless looking. I say 'looking' because I've been known to be a bit feisty when it's needed. (Hey, if a woman hits you with a racket, you've got to defend yourself, yes?) But they don't know that, now do they? What's dangerous about someone who just scarcely hits the five feet marker? I just barely make the height requirement for some roller coasters. They even make me stand up next to the inches chart to verify (for insurance purposes, of course).

Maybe it's the shoes. Maybe they're afraid I'm going to use one of those pointy toes on a flight attendant. Even if it IS the heels, I wouldn't give them up, not on your life or mine. I have a theory. Sneakers belong in the gym. Flip flops reside on the beach. Boat shoes should be hidden at all times (even when on the boat). An ex once tried to convince me of otherwise. (Well, I DID mention he was an ex, didn't I?) The relationship did not end well.

The checker is always a nitwit. Always, always.

"Ma'am, may I please have your shoes?"

"No, you may not. But I will take them off for you."

See? You laughed. They never do.

"Ma'am, would you please unbuckle your belt and hold it open?"

"On the first date? Goodness, no."

The afore-mentioned statement is usually granted a confused arching of one eyebrow (or occasionally two), and then the security attendant inevitably repeats the original question. Don't these women have to take a test or something to get the job? Is this the result of a low unemployment rate or am I just being pessimistic again?

But anyway.

By the time I've proven that I am not in possession of any harmful weapons, substances, or behaviors (outside of an oddball sense of humor), they let me pass. Granted, it's usually with a mumbled apology for the wait. But an apology is an apology, right? And they wonder why people drink on flights.

I've yet to tell you where I'm going, have I?

Home. I'm going home for a visit. It's been about a year and a half, but don't ask my mother or she'll call it two. Dad will cross his arms and pretend it's been five. (Dad has always been Dad, and Mother has always been Mother. Even when I was young. Not in a Norman Bates sort of way. She's just not the type of person who inspires nicknames or shortened versions of things. All my life, I've never heard anyone call her Pam.)

I missed last Christmas. In my family, this is paramount to a capital offense. Well, it's not quite that strong of a punishment, thankfully. However, with my mother's special talents in wheedling, a girl could grow to think otherwise. That is one skill I'm grateful not to have inherited from my mother. As far as the apple and tree go, I think I'm an orange that has fallen somewhere in between. In between what, you ask? Mother and Dad.

If you met them, you would understand in two minutes what I mean. Make that ten, just to be safe. Dad would be on his best behavior for at least a few conversational topics. Two extremely different personalities in one home. A happy home, but disparate all the same.

The flight isn't bad. It's a few minutes longer than three hours, provided that there is no inclement weather. I remember one flight a few years back where we were rerouted to a nearby airport due to bad weather. Finding a rental car to get to my parents was hell. By hell, I mean maneuvering a Chrysler in hard rain.

Waiting in the boarding area has always been one of my favorite parts of traveling. No, I'm not the sadist who likes to watch people get worked up over missing their flights. I like seeing the antsy nature people develop just before the boarding call. And the more anxious they get, the more they pace. There are few things more amusing than an open space full of people milling around like worker bees, without realizing what they are doing.

In choosing your plane seat before making the purchase, there is invariably a decision to make. Do you want to be the first on, or the first off? Not including first class, of course. I haven't sat up front and sipped champagne for five years or so. When it comes to coach, I'm a fan of last on, first off. Why, you ask?

It's just like the security check. I almost always end up next to Mrs. Betty-Sue-Talks-a-Lot. Whether her name is Irene or Gertrude or, in fact, Betty Sue, she never recognizes the purpose of my headphones, or the silencing joy of an MP3 player. Her perfume is enough to choke an elephant and her voice is one note higher than a mosquito buzzing around in your brain. More correctly, my brain. Occasionally, I'll get Mr. Won't-Turn-His-Cell-Off and all of his oddities. I think I prefer Betty Sue.

Getting on the plane, for someone who has never been fond of flying, is a disconcerting experience. The ramp that leads to the plane is wobbly, and the step-up to actually enter the cabin never strikes my fancy. Yet more reason to become an alcoholic.

Seat 16A. If I have the choice, I'm a window person, despite the whole flying problem. It used to be somewhat of a Heller-esque situation, but now I just swallow my squeamish issues. Anything is better than being stepped over by people trying to get to the two foot by two foot restroom.

There are many sources of amusement on an airplane, but nothing is more hilarious than those trying (unsuccessfully) to join the 'Mile High Club'. Once the flight attendant inevitably catches the culprits, then they're stuck with the silent ridicule of the other passengers until the flight is over.

But anyway.

I've scheduled two weeks off of work to make up for my familial faux pas this time last year. My boss almost turned blue when I gave him the good news, but he'll live to sign another paycheck (of mine, thankfully). I'll be staying under the same roof as my parents for one half of a month. Fourteen days. A fortnight. What in God's name was I thinking when I booked those flights?

***

"Sara!"

My aunt Lillith, the chain smoker.

"Aunt Lillith! What are you doing outside?"

"Working hard at ruining my lungs, sugar. Need help with those bags? Give me a hug. Let me help. Really, I insist."

Does she insist on giving me a cancerous hug or on half-heartedly attempting to help with my bags? Or, lucky me, both?

"It's all right, Aunt Lillith. I'll get them inside while you finish up out here."

The house looked the same. Then again, it always did, just like Dad always loved his pressure-washer. And the front door still stuck.

"Sara!"

"Dad!"

We've always been an exclamatory sort of family. When I get back from visits home, my friends call it the 'Ahhh!!!!' stage.

"Are you early? What time is it?"

Dad has never worn a watch. He's never needed one.

"It's six-thirty, Dan. Sara! So good to see you!"

Mom, on the other hand, always has a watch. She's why he doesn't. Hugging my mother is like holding onto something very soft but breakable. Porcelain china in a five foot five teddy bear frame.

"It's good to see you both. I'm a little early. Getting a cab from the airport wasn't nearly the hassle that it normally is."

A beauty of an understatement.

"Have a glass of wine, sweetheart. Dan just opened a bottle that I think you'll like."

Is it red? Enough said.

"Thanks! That would be lovely."

There's a point in time after a long-enough flight where all I want to do is take off my bra, kick off my shoes, and have a nice glass of wine. Ah, well. One for three.