The airport is not a particularly good place to practice humility. The security line is humiliating, but that’s not to be confused with being humble. I know that Rupert Murdoch does not know the difference between “humble” and “humiliating,” yet I think it is likely that you do. Being humble means being honest about who and what I am. No more than or less than, just plain vanilla. The security line is not a place where I feel plain vanilla. I feel vanilla on the pavement in august.
There’s really no need. The TSA guys are perfectly nice and helpful. The volume is not that heavy here in Asheville, so I reckon they can afford to be patient and helpful. Still, I try to counter act my nervousity by being the best at going through the line. My laptop and liquids are out at the same time my shoes are coming off and my blazer is in the bin. That’s right, bitches, liquids. I full carry-on for this trip. Even printed out my boarding pass last night. Another step in counteracting my inferiority complex at the check-in.
It’s not a complex which continues to the gate area. You know I am all up in the seat nearest the outlet. Voltage is everything babies, and I have it. My battery is full. I look at these poor pitiful touristas headed back to Plano and Cleveland Heights. They’re selling their consulting services to the people from the raft trip, because they haven’t closed a contract all summer and who is going to pay for this goddamn vacation anyway?
And the young kids. Newlyweds and college sweethearts. They’ve been trying not to check their iPhones all week long, and it has been boring as hell since Friday at 3 when they walked into the craft fair. No more even having to pretend not to be bored. It’s the airport after all. Who doesn’t get bored in the airport. Certainly the dude who keeps checking the departure screen every three minutes. Look at him. Button down shirt, khakis, tassel loafers. And he turns to reveal his tortoise shell glasses. That’s when I realize that he — and they — are me. We.