Wherein age is fluid
I'm in Houston today; my mother is being honored as Congregant of the Year at our shul this evening, and Paul flew Adam and me in for it. This was a surprise for my mother. My mom doesn't handle surprises well - surprise birthday parties for her growing up had to be carefully ruined at least six hours in advance so she wouldn't fake it in front of guests, then storm out while we were cleaning up because she was embarrassed. This time, though, I didn't spoil it. And it was okay. She cried (because she does,) we went and had dinner at Barnaby's - where the waiter/manager/whatever flirted with me shamelessly, I ate it up, and my mom loved it.
Anyway, that's not what this post is about - this post is about what travel does to me.
See, I did most of my traveling - or at least traveling by plane - in high school and my first year or two of college. I was heavily involved in my youth group (NFTY) at the regional and national level in HS, and was briefly sucked into the National Union of Jewish LGBT????? (we added four letters in the six months I was on board) Students my sophomore year of college. And then...I stopped flying, or at least, stopped flying regularly. I'm on a plane maybe twice a year now - Glenn's from a roadtripping family, so we drive anywhere that's less than twelve hours away.
Every time I set foot into an airport, therefore, I'm sixteen again. Old enough to not need a chaperone, but young enough to feel freed by the experience. I half expect to be traveling with my guitar to a convention; I half expect to arrive at the airport, meet a bunch of others, some I know and some who are new to me, tune up and play a couple of Indigo Girls songs. I was on my second flight yesterday; there was a younger guy - earlier 20s - sitting next to me. I caught myself thinking something - i don't remember what, exactly, something about him or the flight attendant or whatnot wondering where the adult accompanying me was - but I had to stop myself, and remind myself that, umm....I am an adult.
I arrived in Houston, grabbed my bag, and got my rental car. Again, amazed at how easy it was; credit card, drivers license - here's your Saturn, Mr. Bleeker.
Did they not notice that I'm just a kid? That I shouldn't be trust with thousands of dollars of someone else's machinery?
...oh, right. I'm not. I should be.
weird.
One quick funny story from the trip, though - yesterday was the first day of camp; I wore jeans to work to be comfortable on the trip, but threw on my Pensacola Opera polo to look "official" for parents if I saw any. A lady in Atlanta stopped me and asked if I would sing "Nessun Dorma" for her. I was flabbergasted - didn't know what to say. I demurred, saying I was just an administrator.
..I should have told her it wasn't in my rep, and trilled out "O mio babino caro" instead. =)
Anyway, that's not what this post is about - this post is about what travel does to me.
See, I did most of my traveling - or at least traveling by plane - in high school and my first year or two of college. I was heavily involved in my youth group (NFTY) at the regional and national level in HS, and was briefly sucked into the National Union of Jewish LGBT????? (we added four letters in the six months I was on board) Students my sophomore year of college. And then...I stopped flying, or at least, stopped flying regularly. I'm on a plane maybe twice a year now - Glenn's from a roadtripping family, so we drive anywhere that's less than twelve hours away.
Every time I set foot into an airport, therefore, I'm sixteen again. Old enough to not need a chaperone, but young enough to feel freed by the experience. I half expect to be traveling with my guitar to a convention; I half expect to arrive at the airport, meet a bunch of others, some I know and some who are new to me, tune up and play a couple of Indigo Girls songs. I was on my second flight yesterday; there was a younger guy - earlier 20s - sitting next to me. I caught myself thinking something - i don't remember what, exactly, something about him or the flight attendant or whatnot wondering where the adult accompanying me was - but I had to stop myself, and remind myself that, umm....I am an adult.
I arrived in Houston, grabbed my bag, and got my rental car. Again, amazed at how easy it was; credit card, drivers license - here's your Saturn, Mr. Bleeker.
Did they not notice that I'm just a kid? That I shouldn't be trust with thousands of dollars of someone else's machinery?
...oh, right. I'm not. I should be.
weird.
One quick funny story from the trip, though - yesterday was the first day of camp; I wore jeans to work to be comfortable on the trip, but threw on my Pensacola Opera polo to look "official" for parents if I saw any. A lady in Atlanta stopped me and asked if I would sing "Nessun Dorma" for her. I was flabbergasted - didn't know what to say. I demurred, saying I was just an administrator.
..I should have told her it wasn't in my rep, and trilled out "O mio babino caro" instead. =)