Not the Airport Olympics

My first ride on an airplane was 2 years and 6 months ago.

“Your first flight ever?!” my classmates said, shocked to learn about my then flight-less life. I was surprised by their surprise— I hadn’t realized it was unusual. Our family vacations were few and only a short drive away. Escalators fascinated me— my world was very small. Occasionally my friends would travel far, but not often. I stayed in Pennsylvania.

Flying was a little bit of a dream come true for me. When I was young I was fascinated with planes and helicopters. I distinctly remember this silver toy plane that looked so real, that I “flew” often, and a cartoon show with talking airplanes that I loved. I hoped to ride in a plane eventually, but had no idea when I would. When I signed up for this trip I called my mom to tell her. She was excited with me.

I’m in the airport now, realizing how different this flight is from my first. I remember being anxious and excited. I was confused by all the signs and rules. Security check overwhelmed me. This was exasperated by everyone else’s calmness. There seemed to be a million things that could go wrong. I kept forgetting things. I was nervous about leaving the gate area (I set like 6 alarms to remind me of boarding time). I reviewed my checklist maybe 100 times.

Right now I am at the the Boston airport— where I took my first flight— now returning from my 11th roundtrip since that first flight. Check in was easy. Security check felt fast. I walked all the way around the airport to find a nice place to sit and type this. I didn’t set an alarm (let alone 6) for my boarding time. I did not take 30 snapchat pictures with Logan Airport’s geotag. This is familiar to me now.

This is my new normal.

It’s a small, but nice mark of growth and independence for me— accompanied by and parallel to many other, beautiful marks of growth from my transition into adulthood.