"ten ... nine ... eight ... "
moving is like a little death to me
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The scene: Houston’s Hobby Airport. The characters: the MacGillicuddy and yours truly. The setting: Gate 1, Concourse C, in line to board the flight.
The MacGillicuddy is toying with the newfangled Southwest Airlines boarding pass, which consists of a paper ticket stub to be presented to the attendant. He turns to me with a mischievous grin, and I know that smile quite well. It precedes one of the in jokes that only happen between brother and sister.
MacGillicuddy: Hey, what do you think they’d do if I tore off my ticket stub myself? Elle: Oh, my God! You would be supporting terrorism
We then have a good chuckle at our travel travails, especially with the new rule about having one’s checked-in baggage searched. The MacGillicuddy got a fondue set as a combination graduation/Christmas present from a thoughtful aunt, which set off a round of “The Fondue Set of Terror!” jokes, as the suitcase containing said present got opened up.
Five minutes later, as they begin boarding, we hear “Sir? Ma’am? Could you step this way, please?”
No strip search, thank goodness, but as we found our seats I turned to him, mirroring his wicked grin, and whispered “Can you believe it? We were racially profiled!” This sets off gales of laughter between us. Because when you’ve been traveling for the better part of New Year’s Day, the mundane becomes tremendously funny.
But we’re back from the Valley. And the cats are looking at me with a mixture of hatred and suspicion. I fear for my life when I sleep tonight.