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So I'm sitting here in Washington National Airport trying to think of something to write about. Putting my thoughts down on "paper" lets my mind relax for a second. In case you don't know me or haven't noticed, I tend to worry about things. Some folks might even go so far as to say that I "stress out" over some things. I don't deny that I sometimes place a heightened emphasis on items that other people may regard as trite or banal (I get double points for using both "trite" and "banal" in the same sentence), but that's just how I am. Given my ability to make mountains out of mole hills, you can imagine how much my blood pressure rises when I fly by myself. I've made this particular business trip a few times, but the fear and trepidation that results from having to drive from my company's business office, through a town, to get to a relatively unfamiliar airport is something I wouldn't wish on anyone. With the hightened security, I wanted to get to the airport at least 1 1/2 hours early. I ended up being 15 minutes later than I planned. If you're thinking that I must have been really close to hyperventilating, then give yourself a gold star. Looking back as I sit at a small round table, drinking a diet beverage and dumping my emotions onto a 1/3 sized laptop keyboard, it seems silly. At the time, though, it really got my adrenaline flowing. Personally I blame it on the fact that I'm an only child. Being left to play by myself, I developed a very active imagination. It's this overly stimulated part of my brain that allows me to actually visualize the plane pulling back from the gate while I press my nose to the glass and cry softly to myself. I always cry when I imagine this, although I hope in real life I wouldn't. In my little panic attack, it's also the last flight to wherever I'm going. Ever. Maybe that's why I cry. And I'm always alone in the terminal. It seems everyone else in the world has gotten on that plane and I'm the only dork who decided to cut it a little too close. At least I'm not naked in the panic-mare (as I call it). Thank heaven for small favors. You’d think that with my stress threshold being so low, that the current world situation would put me into a stress-induced coma. Again in the “small favors” department, I work at a job where there are people in my department who can recite from memory the phenomenology of just about every hazardous agent that the bad guys could use on us. One quick call can put my mind to rest on all the biological stuff. As for the terrorism stuff in general, even Ashcroft coming on with a notice of pending doom doesn’t really make my stress meter even twitch. I think there are two reasons for this: firstly, I’ve got enough crap that I’m responsible for to make me go gray in about 20 seconds if I thought about it all at once. The thought that I would be in a situation where a terrorist act would directly involve me never really crosses that cluttered desk that is my mind. If I could actually care negatively about something, then I would when it came to a terrorist actually singling me out specifically for an attack. Second reason why Ashcroft’s messages don’t really make me enter the fetal position can be summed up by an experience I just had in the airport. I guess there’s an alarm bell that’s somehow related to the door that separates the skyway from the terminal itself. This alarm went off when I started writing this. I looked up, slightly concerned. Someone went over and did whatever was necessary to turn it off. A few minutes later, it went off again. This on and off alarm bell thing went on several times during the wait for boarding. After that second time, though, I was sort of over it. I knew that there was someone who was responsible for making sure that every time the alarm went off, the reason for its sounding was verifiable and not a cause for fear. Ashcroft’s alarm is the same way for me. I’ll look up when he makes the announcement and take heed, but I know there are people in this country who spend their workday making sure that some geek from Huntsville who likes to sing Karaoke once a week isn’t going to have something bad happen to him at the hands of a terrorist. Sorry about the emotional dumping rather than a column with any real content. Now that I’m done with this, I can get back to worrying about things. Did I leave anything in the Hotel room? Did I leave anything in the Rental car? Did I leave anything in the office that they put me in? Will I make it back in time to pick up my daughter from Daycare? Well, you get the idea.
Gasucawa |
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