Naked at the Airport

No it’s not a picture of aliens doing calisthenics; it’s a picture of you against a plate of glass at the airport. Well not really you but the iconic male and female, the female on the left, chiefly identifiable by what she lacks and the insult of that every time, the young couple peering at the ultrasound as the doc sweeps the wand across her mounding belly. (“Is there a STEM on this apple?” is how my doc put it as he searched to see if I carried a male-child.) You always heard travel was broadening but who ever thought back in the glory days of flying  that broadening would come to refer to your stance? Broadening as in “Spread ‘em, pal”?

No one even reacts anymore. Every time I fly I have to just about take off my bra with its  pesky underwire. In early 2002 we were complaining like crazy about just having to slip  our shoes off. Now we’re practically pulling our pacemakers out of our chests and laying them down on the belt.  Not that we’re not grateful for the oversight. God forbid Grandma should climb aboard packing right?

All of which is to say I’m here at last in Bloomington to bask in the company of my spiritual kinfolk. Yep. It’s the Annual Conference of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists which has prompted even the governor of this fine state to issue a proclamation.  Now where did I put my kazoo?