Full Body Shamer

 A few weeks ago, I decided to buy some long underwear. My old ones bagged at the knees and sagged at the waist. I looked like an 19th century cowboy climbing down from his horse for the last time. At our local Red Apple store I found a pair of Hanes with a cashmere-like inner fabric. A long-sleeve black Tee shirt completed the outfit. 

This was the look of a serious winter athlete. One who spends hours outdoors and needs to feel warm yet not bulky. I took them home, put them on and felt my athletic ability rise and my weight plummet. (Mostly because I had to suck in my stomach. Otherwise I looked like Mrs. Claus attempting a yoga workout.) So far, I've worn them for lying on the couch reading and occasionally for watching television. 

A few weeks later, I was going through security at the Winnipeg airport. I stepped confidently into the full body scanner, legs apart and arms raised. Now, for those who take a more cavalier approach, let me tell you that I do not. I wear pants with no pockets, always take off my boots, and generally treat the  scanner as a challenge I'm going to win. 

"Any change in your pockets?"

"Absolutely not," I said to The Man. My tone was that of an offended Victorian grandmother clutching her pearls. But in spite of all my convinction and effort, I didn't pass the test. Not once, twice or three times. They beckoned me out of the scanner, the two transportation security officers frowning as they walked around me.  At one point they stepped back, like I might be packing grendades under my clothes. After a cartoonish double take, the woman said, 'Are you wearing two pairs of pants?' 

Giving my tummy a reassuring pat, I said, "Well, yeah. Sometimes it's cold on the plane." 

"Tug that inner waistband up. No, go higher. Higher than that." 

By this point, I'd given myself a serious wedgie. "I feel like Steve Urkel," I said.  They just stared at me.  'Never mind," I sighed, and muttered, 'what is happening here?" They didn't answer me.  Once back in the scanner, they had me widen my stance and lift my arms even higher. It finally worked.

 "You can go now," the woman said. "But pack your exra pants next time. And put them on at the airport."

 "They're not extra pants...."  I'd lost them. They were already busy torturing another passenger.

After this kind of experience, I long for someone dangerous to follow behind me in the lineup. Someone they'll have to chase through the airport. Then I could justifiably say, 'Why are you bothering with my long underwear?" Alas, nobody else gave them any trouble. 

I don't know what it was with me. Too much fabric?  Long underwear in general? Those machine don't like things that are hidden. But come on. Everyone layers in winter. Even at the airport. Right?

Here is a photo of the long underwear I bought. This is not me in the picture, but let's pretend it is.

Seat Mate

 I recently attended a reunion with folks Clarence and I travelled with in 1978. From Istanbul to Kathmandu, we hunkered down together in the back of an old army truck, bitching about the cold, the 4:30 AM breakfasts and many, many other tribulations. It felt a bit like a four month season of Survivor. No million dollar prize, but some forever friends were made.

Occasionally, my seat mates were the singing Lesbos sisters, (named for an infamous vodka-induced song fest around the campfire near the Isle of Lesbos.) We often sat together on the truck, carolling away while ignoring the resigned looks around us. Not everyone wants to be serenaded while feeling irritated, hungry and cold. 

Another seatmate I remember is Bill Hiley, who along with me, contracted the egg burps while visiting Khabul, Afghanistan. Bill and I were made to sit in the back of the truck, our heads sticking through the opening in the canvas as we belched away. 'My God, that's disgusting!' I'd tell him, before expelling my own sulfurous burps. If you've never had foul smelling gas rocketing from your mouth, you can't possibly understand the group's need to isolate us. We hung out the back like a pair of unhappy dogs.

My favourite seat mate was my husband, who famously said, 'Wouldn't it be fun to travel in the back of an army truck with a bunch of strangers? It'll be warm in Asia...let's bring summer sleeping bags!' I salute you, honey, but we should have checked the weather. Who knew it would snow in Turkey? I mean, we camped the whole way. 

We lifted a glass in your memory, and read aloud your quotes. A group favourite was, 'You know you've got a tapeworm when you reach down to wipe your butt and something shakes your hand."

On my way to England, I sat beside a woman from the Bahamas. What made me jealous was how effortlessly she fell asleep. Nothing works for me. Not masks or ear plugs or tequila. It mystifies me how people can fall asleep sitting upright with everyone coughing, sighing and snoring all around them.

Flying home, my seat mate was a lovely man who chatted with me for a few hours before easily falling asleep. He woke up just in time for the midnight drink cart and my moment of humiliation. Please, let me set the stage.

For the first time in my life, I chose to travel economy plus. You don't get the flat beds there. You get a small foot rest, nicer dinners and free booze. I felt guilty about it because that tiny bit of extra space leaves a larger carbon footprint. I kept thinking, 'Oh my God, I'm turning into Jeff Bezos!'  

And then I asked the flight attendant if I could have a cup of herbal tea. 'I'm so sorry,' she said. 'But herbal tea is reserved for business class." She looked around as if to say, 'Can you believe this lady?'

I kid you not. I could have all the alchol I wanted, but a .25 herbal tea bag was a bridge too far. I might as well have asked her for a million dollars. 'You don't think it's the opportunity to lie down that convinces them to pay $5000 for the trip?'

"It's policy," she said. 

I no longer felt like Jeff Bezos. I felt like someone who had cadged a ride for free, even though I'd paid $1600 extra for my flight. Somehow, the foot rest, blanket and eye mask didn't make up for the tea bag. The guy beside me said, "That's so cheap, it's unbelievable!' Then he went back to sleep. 

My seat mate on the flight to Calgary was Asian. The outstanding thing about him was how still he sat. He faced straight ahead, his eyes half closed and his arms lightly crossed like he was lying in a coffin. I think he was meditating, but I interrupted him with a compliment and an apology.

 "You're so still! I don't know how you do it!" He gave me a look, but I kept going. "I'm like a meth addict. I can't stop moving. Like, right now, I'm trying to find my gum (I was rummaging through my purse) and I need to change my kindle for my kobo and put my sweater away. Honestly, I'm so sorry!'

 He gave me another look. Was it pity? Condemnation? I couldn't tell, he was so poker faced. Then, he started doing this tapping thing. His arms were still crossed as he began running his fingers across his shoulders and neck. I was about to ask him what he was doing, but his very stillness was its own warning. Meekly, I sat back and shut up. 

We don't get to pick the people sitting beside us on planes. Otherwise, that man would never have chose me. However, I've seen people sigh in relief when they realize they'll be sitting next to me and not the six foot eight, two hundred and fifty pound guy right behind me. (Unfortunately, they don't understand what lies ahead.) 

But we can decide who we sit next to in life. Friends choose each other. They sit to the right and left of us in coffee shops, in church, while attending a play or meeting up at book clubs and card nights. No explanation is needed regarding fidgeting or inappropriate comments...they know us at our best and worst. And still, they choose the seat. 

So, here's to all our favourite seat mates...our spouses and friends, the organizations we join and the folks we choose to work beside. When the world feels like too much, these people know how we feel before we've said a thing. And another great thing about it? The first class friendship ride is free. Take that, Ms. cheapskate flight attendant!