Being the responsible adult woman that I am,
I arrived at the airport a full hour and a half before my flight was scheduled to board. Granted, this was after I barely made it out the door—my suitcase mysteriously five pounds heavier than when I first began my trip, and my outfit a curious amalgamation of everything I hadn’t yet packed. Think Tanya McQuoid meets Amelia Earhart meets a Polish grandmother meets Homer Simpson. I then stood behind a man in the security line whose only possessions consisted of a small backpack and a box of pizza that appeared to have been sat on at one point.Airports, as a cultural artifact, tend to evoke one of two impressions: either they’re a breeding ground for college essays or the potential setting for a formulaic rom-com. Or, simply an opportunity to use the word sonder in its correct context.
So many lives, so many stories unfolding in parallel! Where are they all going? What dramas and revelations await them?
Or, more immediately, one might think: Why is he having a vodka soda at 9 a.m.? Is that child actually on a leash? Why is this bottle of water so fucking expensive? Peanuts! Neck pillows!
I don't know of many places other than an airport where you can buy a massive bag of popcorn (though to be fair, I’ve never once seen anyone actually buy this, but there’s always a Garrett’s Popcorn stand at every airport I visit), wear pajamas without a second thought, and sip alcohol before noon with little more than a raised eyebrow from the bartender. You can also buy a lottery ticket, discover who’s been crowned People’s “Sexiest Man Alive,” and, if you’re really feeling fancy, have your shoes shined.
On this particular occasion, I was leaving Chicago after having spent Thanksgiving with my family. I’ve always thought O’Hare smelled like an old Subway sandwich that’s been left in the backseat of a car, especially when you walk through that long corridor with the neon light installation. But this same corridor is also where I like to watch the old businessmen glide across the moving walkway; a scene made comically histrionic as George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” plays in the background.
This is all to say that lately, I’ve become increasingly enamored with how unserious life can be if you allow yourself to view it as such. In a world weighed down by expectations—what “should be,” what “could be,” what “ought to be”—unseriousness feels like a necessary antidote.
I’ve now been back in New York for nearly a week and have had no shortage of similarly unserious moments. But my favorite, by far, was when I had to go into the convenience store for a pack of condoms.
(I assume this mention of what some would consider a taboo subject has at least a few of you clutching your pearls, which is exactly why I’m including it. What better way to subvert the strain of societal decorum than to speak openly about the very things we’re supposed to avoid?)
From the moment you walk inside this convenience store, you’ll notice how all of the personal-care products are displayed on the back wall behind the cash register. So, you’re going to have to actually ask for what you need. And it doesn’t matter how clearly you articulate; they will ask you to repeat yourself until you’re essentially shouting, TROJANS! GIVE ME THE TROJANS! Once those words leave your mouth, five new customers will spawn out of nowhere. And they’ll know. Oh, they’ll all know...
The two store clerks, a man and a woman of equal height and stature, seem to enjoy watching this whole act unfold. They’ll exchange glances and giggle like schoolchildren as you fumble through the awkwardness. When they do decide to finally hear you, they’ll grab whatever’s lying around—an absurdly long stick, an umbrella, or whatever else is within arm’s reach—and begin the delicate process of knocking the box off the wall. Naturally, they never get it on the first try. They’ll feign confusion, dancing between the magnum and the regular sizes until your face resembles a fully ripened tomato.
Now that the entire store has been made fully aware of your business, the prize is yours. While you’re at it, you might as well buy yourself a candy bar and some gum. Needless to say, you’re likely to leave with the better part of your dignity bruised, but a story to tell later on, nonetheless.
Unseriousness—whether encountered in an airport terminal or, quite embarrassingly, while trying to buy condoms—not only disrupts the rigidity of life but humbles our self-righteous, self-aggrandizing nature as individuals. Rarely are we ever as composed, as perfect, as cool as we imagine ourselves to be.
We must remember that this all began out of fortuitous circumstances.
We must laugh!
We must play!