I was in San Diego when I was twelve and my family drove out to visit my father’s sister, Dita, during our Christmas break. Aunt Dita and Uncle Phil had a chalet somewhere around Big Bear Lake, and we were going to meet them there and drive to San Diego in a week. The trees weighted with snow, the mountains, the chalet—all were enticingly alien compared to what we saw in the flat colorless Texas panhandle. Looking at all that glittering white, my sister, Resi, and I anticipated the great fun we would have in the days ahead.
The morning after our arrival, Dita had my mother, sister, and me accompany her on foot down to the grocery store, where she bought two full bags of groceries. Though we offered to help carry the bags back up the mountain, Dita insisted that she could carry them by herself—and because of her stubbornness when it came to accepting help, she lost her balance, which caused her to slip on the icy road and break her leg. And from then on, our vacation was all about my aunt and her leg. She had her bone set at the local hospital and then, in separate vehicles, we followed them to their home in San Diego; and, well, you know how it is when you’re a kid, you don’t remember everything, only certain things; and when it comes to being present in the city, of going to the zoo and Balboa Park and the beach, which I’ve always been told we did, my only clear recollection is of my aunt, ensconced in cushions with her leg elevated as, enunciating in a bizarre way because of the painkillers, she instructed her cousin, Gabby, in how to make cherries jubilee. So, a weird time evoking weird memories. But I’ve heard good things about San Diego and I’m looking forward to spending some time there.
One of our favorite things to do is look out over a moving crowd while drinking Bloody Marys and watching people move across our field of vision. This is the way we kill time in airports, as, I’m sure, do many others. Do we judge? Yes we do. But we also appreciate the diversity—look at all these people with their different backgrounds that color their minds and influence their actions.
Today, in the Austin Bergstrom Airport, David and I split a turkey sandwich, sit at an outward-facing bar, and gaze at the travelers making their way to their gates. We talk about the decisions people make concerning their appearance. For the thousandth time, discussing jeans, David says, “The more rips, the more expensive.” It’s a style neither of us has ever understood.
There’s no denying that people have grown heavier over the years. But today I’m viewing a new statistic in that, for every forty (estimated) obese people, one will stroll along who is dangerously, ghastly, skinny, which, when you think about it, indicates that among all the fleshy bodies floating by, an alarmingly large number of people are deliberately starving themselves to death. Breathing skeletons encased in gray dermis. What’s up with that?
Also, we’re seeing a disturbing amount of cleavage; not attractive cleavage, either, but deep boob cracks formed by ill-fitting clothes or bras. One woman wears her shirt inside-out, the seams and tags showing, and so carelessly donned that it’s not centered and hangs off-shoulder, and not in a sexy way, but more in the manner of a hag. This makes me want to take the women of Austin shopping. What happened to modesty? Shouldn’t there be rules? From whom are these women seeking advice?
A man in his fifties leisurely progresses from right to left. With no one accompanying him, he wears a smile. The smile is unwavering, aimed at everyone and everything. And this makes me think of what my father used to say—"Show me a man who smiles all the time and I’ll show you the village idiot.” Cynical and mean-spirited, I know. But he was the man who raised me and it’s because of him that I’m disturbed by people who smile or laugh for no reason. I try to curb these negatives that I carry with me, but they sneak in.
It's time to board. David makes all the travel plans and I’m okay with that—I mean, really, who wants to mess with it when someone else is willing to do it? I tell myself that he enjoys scrolling through ticket prices, that he likes to fret over schedules, that he’s gifted at managing; but the truth is, he doesn’t trust anything that he doesn’t control. I guess we all have past experiences in our heads.
We make our way to the gate and David hands me my boarding pass. I glance at it.
“1A!” Unprecedented! “You know what this means?”
How sweet of him. He knew I’d be thrilled. First one on, first one off. At the end of the flight he will grab our carry-ons from the overhead bin, hand mine to me, and then take a step back, inviting me to go first. This is the way it always goes.
“What does it mean?” he asks, though he knows what I’m going to say.
“I have the power!” I tell him. “I can control the pace of the exit. I can dawdle. I can make everyone in the back wait on me, just as I’ve had to wait so many times.”
“Or maybe you’ll use your power for good instead of evil.”
“We’ll see,” I say slyly. . . “We’ll see.”
A pretty bird at the San Diego Zoo
Another pretty bird.
