Musings Aboard Continental Flight 632

I am writing this aloft on a plane suspended somewhere between Houston Texas and New York City. It is much later than I had hoped this journey would take place due to an unscheduled 2 hours on the runway listening to unreliable accounts of the awful thunderstorms plaguing the LaGuardia airport and how this may or may not result in my permanent residency in the Lone Star State (good thing I have lots of rodeo experience). My flight was eventually returned to the gate which has to be the saddest thing that can happen to one at an airport save finding out that ye old internet is reporting to your somewhat bemused boyfriend that your plane has arrived in New York City (When did LaGuardia get a BBQ joint?).

I was eventually herded back on the flight and seated 2 rows behind a family of roughly 35 over dressed folks half of whom were under age 7 and all of whom seem to have never so much as seen a plane before. The father figure has repeatedly yelled at the stewardess to bring him some water RIGHT NOW and the children (the hordes and hordes of cackling little goobers) will not stop crying, whining, screeching and generally poking each other into a frenzy.

I, possibly more than most, know how disappointing, frustrating and baffling the airline industry can be but I find the general moaning of those around me substantially harder to endure than the cramped seat, the linger smell of vinegar, the absence of Diet Pepsi and the fact that an additional hour in the Houston airport forced me to break down and eat French fries and a burger both of which will likely be the final layer of fat that forces me out of my svelte size fours and into a muumuu. Worse yet the stewardess has just brought me more food – I applaud Continental Airlines for holding out against the $5 Snack Pack in favor of free damp cheeseburgers and iceberg lettuce but also curse them for bringing more calories to my tray when I have nothing but a DS Crossword that’s kicking my ass and three days of work email to act as ammo against boredom eating.

I somehow managed to resist the temptations of fast food only to realize 15 minutes after pushing my uneaten slop towards the Miss America-like heavily made up stewardess that buried beneath the ketchup packet and wet wipe was a fun sized Hershey bar which I very much would like to have in my mouth. Sure, asking them to dig this morsel from the garbage would be uncivilized but what other place in modern society so heartily supports incivility? Shouldn’t I embrace this opportunity? Isn't a subpar milk chocolate bar and civil disobedience in the form of dumpster diving at 30,000 feet exactly what I’ve earned? I don’t even like milk chocolate.

Of Evolution and Patio Furniture

Ok, it’s a bright sunny day, you’re sitting outside on a friend’s porch soaking up the sun and the coronas and the guacamole and the latest celebrity gossip. Said friend is wealthy enough to have purchased or rented an abode with a deck (so if your friend is living in NYC he is probably a millionaire and if this friend is single I think you know who needs a little introduction) but not quite wealthy enough to afford fancy wooden deck furnishings from Crate and Barrel but also classy enough not to have purchased a set of those plastic molded monstrosities and so you’re sitting in one of those metal chairs coated in resin it’s kind of retro and it leaves a nice netting pattern on the back of your thighs (“natural fishnets”). After your friend and I start dating I will make him replace this crappy furniture because when I move in we’ll be saving a lot of money on rent/mortgage and we’ll want to celebrate our love and new found financial solvency with a frivolous purchase but until then you’re forced to uncomfortably squat in this crap, but you probably shouldn’t complain -- it’s not like any of your other friends even have porches. Anyway, as you rest your arms on the pathetically thin “armrests” you notice that the plastic resin is beginning to peel off right where the metal bends to connect armrest to seat. So of course you start picking at the metal, slowly working the resin off until half of the armrest is naked exposing its shiny steel skin. And this is the most awesome fun you have had in ages. I mean sure, your friend’s already ugly chair is looking crappier by the second and sure it’s just going to get worse the next time it rains and the steel starts to rust and sure this might lead to your friend never inviting you over for sweet porch action ever again and sure that might mean that you never introduce your friend (I’ve started calling him Elliot in my head, I like that name) and I and it’s possible that because of this I will also disown you and you’ll have to spend future summers sad and alone in your crappy little apartment but none of this matters. Why? Because picking at things is wonderful and there is no way you can stop. Obviously evolution has selected for the picking at things gene because everyone I know (and let’s be honest, everyone on the planet) does this, it’s impossible to resist the siren song so really your friend should be a lot more understanding (especially since as I noted above if he would just chill out he has some nice replacement patio furnishings in his future).

The issue I have here is WHY? Why is peeling paint or labels or plastic resin off of things so damned fulfilling? I’ve struggled to come out with any clear evolutionary reason for this to be such a rewarding hobby. As a good little science fetishist and someone who would really like the world to be controlled and predictable I try to deduce the reasoning behind pretty much everything. And I am usually able to come up with something believable enough to calm my mind and prevent me from regaling the internet public with a long diatribe on the subject but not so today (clearly). Here’s all I could come up with on the picking topic while lying in bed last night obsessing instead of sleeping (or at least focusing on a sleep inspiring activity). My food foraging foremother was constantly in search of tasty morsels in the form of roots, berries and the like and a bit of over turned ground or a out of place leaf often indicated good eats to be had. After a few generations of being rewarded for this picking at the world the “picking gene" was selected over other genes and today remains in our DNA. Seems reasonable, right? Next time you pick at something ask yourself if you feel hungry and get back to me.