An Ode to Commercial Airlines

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. And, it all unfolded in a glorious 24-hour nightmare.

I booked myself on a "quick" flight from Asheville to Charlotte, North Carolina where I would catch my connecting flight to Orlando for a mesmerizing meeting of the International Association of Counselors and Therapists of Hypnotherapy. A veritable stare-down. What could go wrong? For one, not getting there!

My mind bending voyage began in Charlotte when the departure board winked a two-hour delay. Delightful, let's have a drink! Hats off to those highflying frequent flyers who flew to the nearest  alcohol oasis frantically waving their money at the disinterested bartenders like gamblers in a chicken fight.  For those with more stoicism and less survival fizzle, wrangling a seat at the bar was simply beyond their lasso's reach. And so frazzled, I slunk back to my gate defeated to sit on a plastic chair feeling sorry for myself.

Two hours stretched into four then eight and finally, a solid 15 hours of terminal purgatory under epileptic triggering blinding light. I thought patience was a virtue until I realized I had none, nor did the hundreds of fellow undead marching with me. The terminal echoed with the spirit deflating symphony of despair.

Now, to be fair to The Tale of Two Cities, let's touch on why this was also the best of times. I remember the brief flashes of joy like a sparkler on a birthday cake. They came when the PA system announced we should swiftly board and take advantage of a break in the weather. Hallelujah! We drag raced to our coach seats, chucking carry-ons into overhead bins with one hand and clicking seat belts with the other, while holding our collective breath. Freedom was so close I could taste it.

Minutes later, the captain roared over the speakers to disembark. That precious window of freedom had slammed shut in our faces harder than a Will Smith night at the Oscars. This, dear reader, happened twice. Only twice. But I tell you, it felt like I was stuck in a multi-universe worm hole living out infinite versions of my misery. Strapped to my unwashed chair, the hope of escaping this black hole was light years away. I Tick Tock'd my farewell to the univserse finally succumbing to my terminal illness.

Then, the proverbial light bulb went on. I AM A HYPNOTIST!"-WAKE UP!" I snapped my fingers. All I needed was to stare into my make-up mirror and pretend to put on eyeliner and hypnotize myself into believing this was not happening. If I was truly that skilled I could put myself under and ignore the frenetic children, the sprawled bodies in every corner and the ashen faces of the seriously delayed. Perhaps, I wasn't as good as I thought because I do remember raising my fists to the heaven and declaring, "Tomorrow is another day."

Laurie Roper is a certified Kineseologist, Hypnotherapist and author of conscious raising books for tweens to teens. She lives in Asheville and is sticking close to home!

laurieeroper@aol.com

lroper@protonmail.com

www.lifesjourneybydesign.com