At JFK for the second time in roughly 48 hours. I’m sitting in yet another undiscovered nook and cranny of an airport that Foursquare swears is my tenth time here. Foursquare is wrong.
I am facing east, watching the sun rise over the left wing of the plane that will be taking me as west as I can currently get domestically. I enjoy airplanes. The smell of the fuel, the taxi. I even enjoy comparing the safety announcements between various airlines. Virgin America currently holds the title for most innovative—that kooky Branson.
And while I’ve been in this position a thousand times—sitting in waiting area, waiting on the gate agent to invite us aboard—I feel changed. It’s still me, nuances and whatnot, but there’s a change a brewin’. I feel like the main character of comic book issue #1. Some major event has happened, and the side effects are starting to show. It’s like being bitten by the radioactive spider, or the weird lab accident where I’ve woken up and look in the mirror and see the same person in the mirror but something internally is different.
There is a more cynical side brewing: a darker underpinning that is bubbling to the surface. It isn’t evil; it’s just more aware and less prone to care about the bullshit that I would normally do something about.
It’s a mutation in the purest form of my personality that’s created a thicker skin and resiliency to whining, complaints, and the typical drama created by people’s insecurities. I find myself just blurting out exactly how I feel moreso (and more honestly) than I used to.
And then as quickly as those changes are noticeable, some things remain the same. That initial burst of power when the jet throttles up and we are charging down the runway provides that same surge of energy in me. I am going somewhere, and these tens of thousands of H.P. are going to make it happen. I press the little aluminum button on the arm-rest as soon as I feel the engines wind up, ease the seat back, and allow the g-forces to blanket me in their comfort. Sometimes I close my eyes; other times I am staring out the window watching the airport slip past as we accelerate.
As we somehow take flight, which, to me, still defies all physics given the size of the soda can that is pumping recycled air through my lungs, and we lumber into the air. I exhale. I think to myself, “So much has changed, without any possibility of reversing the effects.”
What will become tomorrow?
