I don't think I'd have the stamina for a job that involved constant traveling. Going through the airport is, frankly, humiliating: taking off the belt and shoes, getting patted down, having somebody paw through the briefcase. Breathing that canned, airplane air always makes me feel like I've been inhaling my oxygen through a dirty fiberglass filter. Squeezing into seats, designed apparently for super-models and eleven-year-olds, I usually feel hot, cramped, and not a little germ-phobic. And traveling, whether business or pleasure, brings out the worst eating habits (10:30...pizza and beer anyone?).
Today, dealing with airline travel will be worth it. Heading to the Bay Area for my good pal (since high school) Nate's wedding. Congrats! Talk about a guy who deserves all kinds of happiness and success. Old friends will be there, plus several of the priests who staffed our seminary high school (haven't seen them since the early 90s). Not sure whether I'm stepping into a time machine, a 'Christmas Carol'-style dream ("I am the rector of Christmas past"), or an all-male version of the "high school reunion" cliche. Looking back on the seminary, I see lots of connections with all that bugs me about airline travel--giving up control. That regimented life. The rules. The schedules. The lack of discretionary time. One of the last things I did before leaving the seminary was go through the battery of pscyhological testing that all seminarians must complete. My results revealed a distrust of institutions and authoritarian structures. A trait ("disorder"?) that's served me well in academe. Didn't serve me as well in the seminary. Nor at airports.
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