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6 OUR YUCAIPA | AUGUST 2016 The Middle of the Road: By Randy Peters, a middle-aged, middle-income, middle-school teacher As a man of middle-aged years I know I should keep my cool. But right now I'm a bit agitated, a little hot under the collar, peeved by circumstances beyond my control, grumpy, and downright frustrated. I have a summer cold. I'm not one of those helpless men that some women joke and complain about. I don't whine and whimper in hopes that someone brings me a cup of hot tea or wipes my nose. In fact, my philosophy is if you don't feel well, you should get up and take a shower. Get dressed and sit up. Try to keep to your routine. That usually works for me. But not this time. Since I'm grumpy anyway, this might be a good time to discuss the petri dish of many viruses. The causes of stress and weakened immune systems everywhere: crowded airplanes with recycled air full of gunk that other people have breathed out of their bodies. I made my flight reservations to Washington D.C. about six weeks before I was scheduled to leave. I knew I wouldn't get a direct flight, but anticipated that in my plans. Late the night before my 6:30 am flight, I got a robotic call explaining my new itinerary. Instead of a well- timed 90-minute layover in Dallas that got me to Washington D.C. at dinner time, I now had a five-hour layover in Phoenix and wouldn't arrive until after 9 pm. Since my cold hadn't started yet I drove myself out to Palm Springs Airport with a positive attitude. I parked my car and remembered to take a picture of my car and its surroundings so that I would be able to find it a week later. (Yes, this was a "memory-helper" tip I read about in the AARP newsletter.) After making it through my five hours in the Phoenix airport, it was finally time to board. Do you know what happens to large metal tubes that are left to sit on an open tarmac in 110-degree heat? I do. It becomes a solar cooker and its passengers become the entrée. Looking back, I wonder if this was the perfect incubation temperature for air-born viruses. I sat in the packed airplane grateful that I paid a little extra to sit on the aisle. I chatted with two brothers from New Zealand who, with their parents, had been visiting Los Angeles, San Francisco, Las Vegas, and Phoenix. Now I wonder what viruses traveled with them as the young men breathed the same air as I. I was very pleased that I did not receive a phone call changing my return flights from Washington D.C. because that was the day my cold first reared its ugly head. I left the hotel and walked into the steam room serving as our nation's capital to realize that I was not going to walk the six blocks to the muni station. I hailed a cab and spent the best twenty bucks of the entire trip. I walked into the American Airlines area at Reagan International and wondered how these people can rationalize cashing their pay checks. I, the customer, had to key in my information and gather my boarding pass and luggage tags in which I had to put on my bag myself. Luckily there were words and pictures showing me how to do so. I followed the directions as stated. However, a worker-bee came up and told me that it was easier to do it a different way. I got a little snarky. I turned to him with my sweat-drenched hair, headache, and full sinuses. "Then perhaps the directions should reflect the easier way to do it," I instructed. He walked away. I then had to lug my suitcase to the counter and lift it onto the scales. The employee said it was fine. I started to walk away. He called me back and said that now I had to move my suitcase to the TSA screening. "And would you be willing to tell me where that is?" I asked. His head tilted to one side like a scolded puppy as he pointed to my left. I dropped my bag at its destination assuming that I would never see it again. Wondering if I would have to frisk myself when I got there, I finally found security. The young agent directed me to a different line than the 15 to 20 people ahead of me. I thought that the disheveled and pasty way I looked at that point was probably going to get me a cavity search. Luckily the agent there was another middle-aged man. He looked at me and said, "It's hot out there, eh? Come on through. It's cooler on the other side." We people of the middle-aged range stick together. I grabbed some lunch and sat at my gate. It was the perfect seat. It was under the air conditioner vent and was near the wall so I could look out over the waiting area. Things were looking up. After a while of waiting, more passengers came to my gate, sat near me, and started breathing my air. A family with small children sat across from me and decided that the space in front of me was the perfect spot to play Red Rover, Red Rover. It really wasn't, and my sinus headache grew. Then came the announcement. Our flight would be 90 minutes late. Normally I can roll with that. But a 90-minute-late flight would mean it would land four minutes before my connecting flight. I politely rose from my chair, maneuvered through the make- shift playground and politely asked the clerk to book me on a later flight because I would probably miss the Palm Springs connection. She politely explained that my flight to Palm Springs would be the last one out. But perhaps I could get a voucher to spend the night in Phoenix. I walked away knowing that one day I'd look back on this lesson about giving up control. We landed in Phoenix, and the pilot announced that the Palm Springs flight would wait to close its doors for about 10 more minutes since there were nine of us needing that connection. The nine of us bolted from the plane to the next terminal and our new gate. We yelled at people who didn't pay attention to the sign that said to stay to the right of the moving walkways to let people pass on the left. (I admit that was a great way to let off some steam!) I zigged and zagged around anything that wasn't moving fast enough. OJ and the Hertz commercials had nothing on me. Once we jammed through the doors and looked past the dirty looks of the passengers who had to wait for us, we belted up, and the pilot started to taxi. It was a smooth and quick ride to Palm Springs where my luggage showed up and my car was exactly where I left it. I feel a little guilty though. With all the huffing and puffing on that last flight, I probably spread a few viruses of my own. Keep your eyes on the road. Traveling in a Petri Dish of Viruses

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