I. Transferring flights is a bad experience but who has ever had a good experience transferring flights? Writing about how much of a pain it is to wait in line to go through security as your plane takes off would be a cheap shot at relatability humor. This isn’t a Buzzfeed article. It’s in list form but it’s different because I’m using Roman numerals instead of numbers.
II. There’s a woman behind me on the phone with her daughter as I cross the threshold into the plane. She’s speaking in that particular voice moms use when they talk to their crying daughters on the phone.
III. My dad told me I should sleep on the flight so I won’t be so jetlagged when I get there. Sound advice, but the little television embedded in the seat in front of me has eight episodes of “Curb Your Enthusiasm” on it. Sorry, dad. You get it though.
IV. Some people I meet here I get a really good vibe from, some I feel vaguely wary of, some I don’t get a vibe at all, which is frightening. Turning into someone who talks about vibes and wavelengths is something that you just have to let happen. Don’t fight it. You were probably really into crystals when you were a kid and this is the natural corollary. Now, what does it mean when I can’t sense the general shape of who someone is? It can’t be that there’s nothing there. Are you wearing a metaphysical mask? Not the Virginia Woolf “Mrs. Dalloway” mask, a sort of drawing together all your nebulous attributes to a tangible point (everyone cool does that), but rather one that feels like a crystalline barricade and is making me nervous. This mask is being utilized to get something from the people you interact with. What is it? What do you want? I don’t have anything you need! I’m not going to view you how you want me to! I’m going to end up in New Mexico drinking herbal tea and discussing vortexes with my neighbor Lotus! Chill out!
V. My mom has asked me to buy the Young family tartan while I’m here. Before I make gentle fun of my mother and publish it in a school paper allow me to extoll her virtues: she’s read almost every story ever written by Philip K. Dick, she lets me talk hot garbage about her terrible friends as long as I make her laugh in the process, her hair still looks like that of a beautiful “Game of Thrones” lady. Taking all this into account, I will tell you that she is one of those white people who insists on going into deep detail when it comes her heritage. A third Scottish, a fifth Welsh, an eighth French, a dash of Polish — MOM. Mom. It doesn’t matter. We’re just white people. This is my main pet peeve about white people and that’s because I’m white. If I wasn’t, my pet peeve would be more along the lines of having to worry about getting shot by one.
i. Sidenote: Remember the UVA protest in response to Eric Garner’s murder/the lack of a criminal case against the NYPD officer who killed him? Remember how the protest went through Clemons Library and a bunch of dumpster bagels posted vitriolic and trash on Yik Yak, complaining about how their study time was being violated and calling the protesters “farm equipment”? Let me tell you something: not only are you racists but you are racist NERDS. You love studying and I hate you. I’m going to slam you and your problematic outlook into a locker.
VI. Being in a gift shop called “REALLY SCOTTISH!” is slightly more embarrassing than being in the giftshop for The Museum of Sex. In the case of the latter, yes, I picked up an ergonomically designed vibrator and yes, I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off and yes, a dude working there came up to me and yes, his gauges were big enough that I briefly considered sticking the oscillating curiosity into one and making my escape. But in the case of the latter, I only nodded politely while he told me about the different features and the many-featured thing moved back and forth rather aggressively in my hand until he paused long enough for me to ask where the off button was. In the case of the former, I have to actively ask about the Young family tartan and gaze upon the utter lack of recognition on the gift shop lady’s face. But I love my mom, so I will buy her a tartan. Until it turns out that family tartans cost 70 pounds. I’m not spending almost 100 dollars on some fake bourgeois nonsense. I need that money for brunch.
Charlotte Raskovich is the Humor Editor for The Cavalier Daily. She can be reached at c.raskovich@cavalierdaily.com.
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