edible derangements

i have a history of crying on airplanes. the triggers are probably numerous, but let’s get efficient for once and boil it down to the anxiety of travel. there are the oft discussed, more physical stresses of airports (draconian security procedures, delays and cancellations, bags blithely wheeled over toes, expensive bottles of water). but we shan’t forget the collywobble-enducing significances of traveling, more subtle, more psychological: farewells, transitions, being with dozens of others in a closed capsule a gazillion feet over hard water and no one saying a word (see billy collins’s “passengers”), the fleeting nature of any given life chapter, the sensation that we’re wayfarers and drifters all of us. apparently, it’s enough to make a girl cry.

and, so, a selected (but lengthy, yowza) breakdown of my trail of tears:

- picture this: july, 1996.* i’m susceptible to motion-sickness. i’ve tried a catalog of pharmaceutical and homeopathic remedies (i still can’t taste straight ginger without gagging), but my inner ear’s an uncooperate jerk. at ten years old, my flight home from kansas (mennonite family reunion: talent show, parkinson’s, strudel) was no exception. and, worse: it was my birthday. (my favorite gift was mall madness.) some ill-fated, very polite guy smiled nervously in the adjacent seat. and so, as we hit the turbulent final descent, holding a grey courtesy bag in one hand and my mom’s palm in the other, i closed my eyes and felt my stomach orbit my throat. this was my cue to hurl, but something odd happened. in an epiphany i will momentarily attribute to inspiration (see the new yorker’s “the eureka hunt”), i realized that maybe i could think through the nausea, concentrate very, very hard on not throwing up. a harrowing ten minutes followed. i thought in belly-flopped dictums: you can do it. you don’t have to ralph; you are in control of your stomach. the man next to me edged to the far side of his seat; i held my resolve. and, suddenly, the wheels touched ground. i looked up and around at a new world, one in which willpower triumphs! i couldn’t stop smiling; i believe that from that point on, i put my faith unconditionally (and perhaps detrimentally) in the mind, the power of thought. i felt formidable, finally responsible for myself. i felt grown up. and so i cried. my mom asked what was wrong. “i’m just so happy i didn’t throw up!” “me too,” said the guy next to me.

* r.i.p. estelle getty

- two months ago, i visited my grandparents in north newton, kansas. here’s a secret: they are the sweetest, most empathetic 90-year-olds ever, so call off the best elderly people search. they were new age before the age of aquarius and “green” when the only crucial political color was red. kansas visits are a medley of poppyseed rolls, jungian maxims, foot massages and tomato picking. on my final day, i bought a jar of strawberry-rhubarb jam from a local farmer’s outlet. i have an affinity for rhubarb, as well as wheat fields and my lovable – and frail – grandparents. the jam was a prized souvenir. later, when negotiating airport security’s obstacle course, the tsa screener found the jam noteworthy, too. her interest, though, lay in the substance’s liquidity; it would have to be tossed. i understood this; there was nothing to be done. rules are rules. and yet my reaction was absurd; i just started sobbing. although the tsa screener was tough, she had a midwestern heart, and asked if i wanted it shipped or anything: kleenex? i declined, my fingers dripping with mascara run-off. when crying in public, i generally carry on as if nothing’s abnormal. my face isn’t contorting awfully, my breathing isn’t jagged! so, i collected my shoes and slung my bag onto my back and trudged on, until i realized i couldn’t read the gate listings because tears obscured my glasses. at the time, the incident was puzzling and laughable – silly old sensitive me, crying over confiscated jam! – but it’s clear now: my grandparents are 90. grandma has a hole in her heart, grandpa has macular degeneration. my quiet, breezy visits to kansas are numbered.

-and, today, coming into los angeleees: i received peter jackson’s heavenly creatures on netflix, and gave it a go on the plane. It was beautiful; go see it. but, bizarrely, I cried while watching it; i don’t cry during movies (unless it’s bergman or i’m eleven and watching titanic). with the plane full and the flight attendants frequenting with drink refills, i kept turning my face toward the window, quickly wiping away tears from the bridge of my glasses. (advantage to long hair: easy face concealment). the movie struck a nerve. i don’t want to shove spoilers down your throat, so, simply: in digesting the movie’s themes, my thoughts extrapolated to myself, self-centered little so-and-so that i am. i thought about how we compensate for insecurities and the disappointments in our lives by creating fantasies to live by, to wholly depend on…and how we also fixate on people whose importance we magnify and then whose attention we depend upon…and to what degree is fantasy (or, alternately, lying to ourselves) key to coping with this rocky world? is this detachment from reality alarming or necessary? apparently i got rather worked up brooding over this, because air travel cry #27 commenced (over and over and over). now, why don’t i see more fellow travelers bawling while watching distant landscapes slip by below?

so, here’s to a good cry, followed by some dabs with airline napkins dusted with peanut salt. may there be many more!

as a coda, I’d recommend heavenly creatures also because of the wacky, dead alive-esque fantasy scenes: knives emerging from stomachs! extreme close-ups of waxy faces! frolicking men of clay!