1. I got a comment today from Quillaume202 telling me about this blog post he wrote about me. I love it so much, I'm bookmarking it.
2. Why is it every time we go on vacation, bed time is instantly three to four hours before our normal bed time? And I'm always still awake, 'cause... hello... I've only been up for twelve hours and I'm not tired yet? Am I impervious to jet lag?
3. I love my job. If I don't say it enough or make it clear, I love, love, love my job. I need to tell you all one day about my OLD job, and why therefore I love my current job so damn much.
Okay. Here's the meat and potatoes, and I don't know if I'm going to piss some of you off with this, but it's coming, so... I'm just gonna throw it out there.
Dan and I flew out to Denver today for our little vacation back home. Well, it's MY home. He's from Milwaukee, but he did live here in Denver with me for a little over three years.
Anyhoo. We were waiting in the security check line to strip down to our basics and get wanded, when we saw the "special" line open up next to us for the Airline Personnel. You know... the Pilot, Co-Pilot, Flight Attendant Steward-folk and such. No biggie, that's a normal thing. Of course they get to cut in line, 'cause they're manning the plane.
Then. Just as Dan was ducking to his right, being super cute, trying his best to avoid the nice, cool airflow from the giant fan in the corner, we saw the "special" line open up again. This time it was some very nice, smiley ladies who worked for the airport. There were two of them, each pushing a woman in a wheelchair. One of the women was an old lady. I mean, she had to have been in her 80's, and couldn't get out of the wheelchair at all, even to walk through the metal detector. The other woman being pushed in a wheelchair was a very large middle aged woman. The third person to walk through behind them was a middle-aged guy, also pushing a large middle-aged woman in a wheelchair.
I began to get angry. I was looking at these middle aged large women for any signs of illness that could really cause them to not be able to walk. You know... bandages, casts, slings, whatever. I wanted to see what injuries they had. Show me stitches or something. But no. They didn't show me stitches. They didn't have casts on or any other kind of visible injuries. What they had was fucked up knees or ankles, or whatever. These women were not older than my mother. They were just unhealthy and fat. You guys, I got seriously annoyed. I was so angry at these two women.
Now hold up. I wasn't angry because they were cutting in line. We had precisely three more folks ahead of us, and a bit of waiting after that before boarding. I could care less about the line situation... I'm a fairly patient gal.
I was angry because their lives had amounted to this. Being wheeled around in frickin' wheelchairs because they had let their health dwindle to crapinabag. And some of you might be thinking, or ready to comment "Wait, maybe they had surgery and you just couldn't see the stitches under their shirts" or "maybe blah blah blah." Okay. MAYBE. But, DOUBTFUL.
You've all seen the ladies and fellas wheelin' around the grocery store or the Wal*Mart (shudder) or wherever. You know that all the fat folks not walking from aisle to aisle are not surfing the motorized carts because they are post-op. These folks are doing it because they've let their joints melt down to mashed potatoes and gravy. Their health is shit. They have pain when they walk. Their muscles are disintegrating. Their lives have become seating room only.
I just stood there and watched these women get up, walk through the metal detector, then sit back down in the wheelchairs on the opposite side and go on about their "push me further, Betty" business.
I looked at Dan and said, "Honey. I swear to you. I will never be that. I swear to God, it's never going to happen."
And I swear, I swore true. There's no amount of macaroni and cheese or Ritz crackers in this world to let me miss out on being independent, capable and strong. It's not worth it. I want to be able to run and play with my children, to walk to the park with my grand kids, and foot it through the airport.
I hate going through security, but dammit, I'm glad I can do it on my own two feet.