On Wednesday morning last week, I woke after a terrible night’s sleep. I knew it would be bad. Afterall, it was a travel day, and fear of oversleeping was on my mind. Of course, I could have set an alarm, but I haven’t set one in decades. For some reason, I believe that my internal body clock is more trustworthy, and I don’t want to rely on an external device.
Don and I scurry around with the goal of leaving the house at 5:15 am. We are mostly on track – until I realize that the bed is unmade. I look at Don with confusion. He makes the bed every day of the week, except on Sundays when I wash the sheets and replace them. How could he leave the house without neatly tidying up the bedclothes? What if, due to unforeseen calamity, I die, and we never return home? I imagine my adult children walking through our primary suite, shaking their heads at my disappointing legacy. Instead of seeing my life flashing before my eyes in my final moments, I am certain I will see our Queen-sized matrimonial bed with comforter askew, disheveled sheets, and pillows astray.
I hurriedly make the bed and head for the garage.
As I get into the car, I notice that the suitcases are in the back seat instead of the trunk. I look at Don, convinced that he has been replaced by a doppelganger who for some reason believes that bags should be placed in the back seat when there is a perfectly serviceable empty trunk full of helpful intentions. I asked why our bags are in the back seat, and he replied, tersely, that it is because they are going to the airport with us. I just had to let it go.
We arrive at SeaTac airport on schedule, get out of the car, and I take the obligatory picture of our parking spot. Don strides off at a near sprint, as though he has heard the gate agent make a final boarding call. But we are earlier than we need to be by about 45 minutes. I have learned through countless air travel with my husband not to complain. Besides, I have not run today, so an airport jog can be part of my workout.
Airport security anxiety has increased. I don’t mean for the security officers; I mean for the travelers, at least for me. I just know that I am going to get barked at. Don and I carefully pull up the screenshots of our boarding passes and pull out our driver’s licenses before entering the TSA pre-check line. The officer summons me forward with what I am sure is a grimace underneath his mask. He asks me to pull my mask off my face as he holds up my photo ID. He looks back and forth several times. It is clear to him that I do not remotely resemble the woman whose photograph is on my driver’s license, a picture taken at least fifteen years ago. I offer a lame joke about the pandemic turning my hair gray, which is not well received.
I walk through the body scanner and scrutinize the faces of the agents reviewing the x-ray of my luggage. I wait for them to summon me to the sideline for a pat down and to wipe my luggage for explosive residue. I am worried that they might think my new travelling companion, my Waterpik, looks like a bomb. But apparently, they do not. I scurry to reclaim my suitcase from the conveyor belt before I can be admonished for taking too long.
The real reason for arriving at the terminal early is to get Starbucks coffee, which has a customer line longer than the non-TSA pre-check security line. I wait, doggedly, for twenty minutes before giving up and walking towards our departure gate. On the way, I find a Peet’s Coffee shop with no line and more than equivalent coffee.
Boarding the plane is mostly uneventful, although Don mistakenly pulls up a screenshot of a boarding pass for a past trip. The gate attendant looks at him with pity and speaks to him in words of less than three syllables to tell him it is the wrong document. Frustrated passengers behind Don shift their weight from foot to foot while he searches for the correct boarding pass. Once on board, we put our carry-on bags in the overhead compartment, and slump gratefully into our seats. Then Don remembers his headphones are in his suitcase above us. We wait until everyone is seated and jump up to retrieve them. A flight attendant scowls at us as we delay departure by about 23 seconds.
The plane takes off, and I try to relax. Once we are at cruising altitude, the drink cart makes its way down the aisle. By now it is 8:00 in the morning. A woman in the row in front of us asks plaintively for wine and is told they do not serve it on this flight.
Ordinarily, I would be horrified that anyone would want wine for breakfast; but somehow, at least today, I kind of get it.