Leaving on a jet plane

It’s interesting how memories at airports seem so timeless and vivid. I remember the day I left San Diego to come to PHC; when I said goodbye to my Dad, I nearly lost it. I was so terrified, I almost decided to call the whole thing off right there. A lot of people may think I was brave to come all the way out here; those people don’t know how close I came to nipping this adventure in the bud. It was an awful moment. That same morning, Mom and I made our way to the gate. Someone was waiting for me there. (This predated September 11 by about three weeks, so guests were still allowed at the gate.) It was Jason, who came to say goodbye and gave me this silly little monkey to remember him by. That was very special. Then as college went on, there was always apprehension: what had changed at home since I’d been gone? What would I find? Or after a long break, what would school be like with Amanda gone? What if everyone forgot about me? I remember the claustrophobic feeling of making my way to the baggage claim coming back to Virginia after the campaign. I could feel everything and nothing and my heart was going a million miles an hour. I can still recall every step, every breath, every anxiety, every relief.

Equally fascinating are the rituals surrounding flying. My family didn’t travel a whole lot when I was growing up, but when we did fly, everything was neatly packed the night before, with just small spaces left open, allocated for the last minute essentials – carry-on food and toothbrushes and the like. The clothes you were going to wear on the plane were laid out so they could be easily accessed when the morning came too early. And I never, ever sleep well the night before I fly.

And so it will be for this trip. In a couple minutes I’m going to do my packing. My outfit for tomorrow will lie in state on the big overstuffed chair in my room. My suitcase, wedding gift and flute and clothes all neatly arranged, will rest not far away. I’ll stare at the ceiling for an hour or two, until blackness fades to unconsciousness, and then my alarm will go off. (Or Sarah will come bounding in to tell me to get my lazy self out of bed NOW because she is NOT missing this flight ;))

Seriously, it’s all so familiar in one sense. And yet I’m starting to fly for reasons I never did before. In February, I flew with Cassidy to South Carolina. That was really the first time I just got on a plane with a friend because I could. Tomorrow I’m going to one of my best friend’s wedding, flanked by two of my other best friends, because going to a friend’s wedding is just what you do. We’re “at that stage” in life, it’s “what happens at that age.” (A clique is worth a thousand boots to the head, for the record.) No, let’s talk about what it is. It’s WEIRD. Yes it is wonderful and timely and all those other things, but it is also weird, and it’s okay for it to be weird because this is the first time that it is this time in my life. (And if this isn’t a self-referentially based argument, then I’m a codfish.) (Can you tell I’m big on the parenthetical statements today?) I mean, Christy is getting married. We used to live together. She used to jest about getting a restraining order against the man she’s now marrying. Time changes so many things. I used to just fly to get to my family, sometimes to go visit a friend. Now I fly because people want me to come witness them on one of the most important day of their lives.

We’re growing up.

Lots of memories to be made this weekend… both at and away from the airport. Here’s to leaving on a jet plane.