Wailing In the Airport
I’ve heard people say, “I hate to fly!” I don’t hate to fly. I mean, how often do you get the chance to spend nine hours squeezed into a tiny space with your knees under you chin and the person in front of you lying back in your lap? (If he can get to it)
How often do you get to eat strange food like they serve you on airplanes? It’s mysterious and mystery is exciting, isn’t it? Flying is great. It’s airports that get on my nerves.
The other day we were coming back from preaching in France. Proud of ourselves, we were, because we had gotten to the airport in plenty of time. Except … except there was a problem with some sort of baggage machine and the waiting line to check in resembled the lines of victims waiting to go up the Eiffel Tower.
Then we all had to move away quickly because some naïve soul had left his bag unattended and the police herded everyone to safety in case the man’s underway exploded.
So, as I finally stood in line again, a kid who looked to be about two was whining in a voice that would have irritated a saint. Ai, yi, yi! When I’m hot, tired and irritated, a whiny kid sends me up the wall. If I had howled like that around my mother, I wouldn’t be here to tell you the story.
You know what, though? I came to the conclusion that he was verbalizing what a lot of us felt as we experienced airport stress. It’s just that it’s not socially acceptable to throw tantrums, whine, etc in public when you’re over 20.
I was tempted to whine myself.
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