3...2...1...

I got up early this morning to drag myself to the airport and pile into an aluminum tube that would carry me through the air at relatively high speeds back to Seattle. Shortly after takeoff, or maybe it was during takeoff, I found myself wondering what had happened to my love of flying. You see, I remember piling into planes when I was 8, 9, 10, 11... eagerly anticipating the first jerks that indicated we had started to move. Somewhere along the lines, eager anticipation and thrill turned into resigned submission to hours of forced immobilization. What triggered my wonderings was the sound of a boy eagerly couting down the seconds as we picked up speed until he could at last exclaim "blast-off!" Of course, he had to count down from 5 several times before he actually got the timing right, but his enthusiasm didn't wane in the least. I'm not sure why flying has become such a tedious experience. I can say that having a bruised right butt cheek (the result of careless navigation across snot rocks the day before) didn't make the flight any easier, but I managed to enjoy myself anyway, and had a very pleasant conversation with my neighbor. And I have to say, it's good to be home.