Greetings from 20,000 feet, or however many heels, toes, pads and balls (heh, balls) could accurately measure how high we are right now. Judging by the latter sentence you could be forgiven for misconstruing my vertical nature for a greener manner, but in that case you’d be incorrect. I wouldn’t hold it against you, (but secretly I kind of would). My love and I are sailing the skies in a vessel of aeronautical persuasions. Some might call it “flying”, but those people are a) squares and b) likely in possession of more than 4 hours of fitful sleep. Very few things have changed since I was a child. My excitement over air travel is not one of them.
If I’ve got a big flight coming up it’s rare for me to get more than an hour or four of slumber. My mind goes into hyperdrive contemplating the Hero’s Journey ahead of me. Am I adequately prepared? Have I forgotten anything? Will I face a road of trials on my way? Stave off interference from meddling authorities? Meet new friends? Acquire new foes? Become enlightened by my meeting with The Goddess? Return to where I started having changed? It’s all so Campbellian, so thrilling. To be plucked from my comfy residence and placed into a situation existing outside of my regular structure of control. Holy shit, I’m jazzed.
Preparations were made and we got lurched out of the gates with a roar. Not least because I woke up at 5.30, 3 hours earlier than we’d intended, giving us ample time to gather all of our things (I may have visited the supermarket and bought 20 cans of tuna. Mercury’s in retrograde, it seemed fitting) and slap on our kicks to hit the street. I mean, we may have been waylaid a little (lot) by getting… ahem “distracted”, which compensated nicely for the abundance of hours. Like I said, travel is pretty exciting. Despite this obstacle we zipped our bags shut and trundled our case along behind us. I don’t get many opportunities to use the word trundled here, so I’m taking my chance. Then again, since I call the rules I could say trundled whenever I want, even when it does fit. Jeez, soon I’m gonna proclaim myself God of this domain. Getting megalomania already? Who died and trundled me out as the Messiah?
The airport was a breeze. We trundled through it with nary an issue. Without having talked to me, the check-in clerk assumed I was heading to New Zealand. Apparently I’ve got that look? Like someone who goes down south? I’ve been known to from time to time, eh ladies? Gross. Not the right place to trundle out that gem. Okay, I’ve trundled that verb out enough. Time to pack it away. I’ve been virtually (and liberally) humming all day. The Wombats have been worming their way through my ears to my brain and they’re spinning on loop. It’s put me into a perpetually peppy and poppy mood, causing me to share smiles with all service staff. Even that burly dude who gave me a spot chosen pat down. Like father, like son eh?
Most importantly, with impending adventure coming our way we had to rise to the call and adapt. To fortify ourselves and hold strong against emerging challenges, we needed totems to believe in. Consulting the sage-like bathroom vending machine, it held the answer: His and hers sassy temporary tattoos. Straight onto the biceps they went. Mine: a blue and green bird with a red head. Basically a badass Woody Woodpecker in flight. Hers? A becleavaged maiden with the slogan “ For the Boys” underneath. Trite gender dichotomies are what we expected, but still, why is Woody Woodpecker a sign of virulent masculinity? I guess his last name is a combination of two terms for the penis, so if fits, put it in.
Tehe. Hey New York, we’re gonna get up inside you!