I don't like to fly, but a couple of weeks ago, I had no choice but to fly.
It's mostly a control thing. I like to feel as if I'm in control, and when I have to sit, in one place, for hours, I am being controlled by the situation and not vice versa.
Incidentally,, I think it's why I took to the occupation of trading. Yes, it's stressful to not make money, or worse, to lose money, but at least (in theory) I'm in control. I'm losing money because of decisions that only I can make. I find a stock to trade, I click "buy," I click "sell," and I decide what quantity. There's really nothing outside of my control.
Well, that's not entirely true. There's Esiggy. It "loses data" and goes down all the time, and that's why they suck. I hate Esiggy because I have no control over Esiggy.
And, let's face it, their customer service is the worst.
Anyway, back to flying. I'm here at LaGuardia, sitting in a pretty empty terminal with time to kill and anxiety to burn. I haven't flown in nearly 5 years. There are trees in large white square pots lining the terminal with it's short blue rugs and pale gray walls. The seats are also pale gray and mostly stained. There is a trapped bird, a House Sparrow of course, hopping on the blue rug avoiding the chrome garbage bins.
What must that bird be thinking?
Anyway, shit... I have time and I digress. Judy is next to me, in her stained gray chair, reading The Yoga Journal and lightly bouncing her foot.
She loves to fly. Absolutely loves it.
Meanwhile, I'm here scribbling nervously into a small pad with large earphones on my head glancing up now and then to see who is walking down the terminal. I'd say that conservatively, 90% of the people are fat. It's disgusting. Worse, it's 90 degrees and humid and they're all wearing jean shorts and t-shirts.
Anyway, let me get back to the beginning... you know what my sister-in-law calls all the fat pasty people (women, specifically) of America? "POUNDCAKE." As in, "check out that poundcake in the jean shorts eating that donut."
-"poundcake #1327"
But you know, Judy got her "feet done" for the wedding we're going to and she told me about how the salon was like a factory, with all these women getting something "done" while reading magazines like Allure, wide-eyed, trying to find ways to improve the way they look.
She said there was a 5-year old girl in there. Made me think about our 3.5 year old. Made me think about her trying to fit into someone else's idea about "how you should look" and it got me depressed and even a little angry.
I thought, well, better to just be happy with who you are, and with your body image. The beauty factory is just as scary as the "poundcake," but in a different way.
To be continued... probably after my exam.
