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Exit Strategy

I always hold my breath as my carry-on luggage goes through the airport screening machine. Of course, I also hold my breath when I go through, which now doesn’t happen until I have assured the security guard that I have no extraneous metal in my body: no knee replacements, no artificial hips, no pacemaker--only the slightly arthritic parts I have been born with.

But the Oslo, Norway airport held a new surprise. Before my carry-on went through the screening machine, the young inspector asked if there were any liquids in it, specifically mentioning face creams. I just stared at him, a twenty-something in an official uniform.

Did he seriously think a woman of what could delicately be called a certain age would travel anywhere without face creams? Does Mickey Mouse have big ears?

I have as much trouble deciding which items from my ever-growing collection of eternal-youth creams I will bring as I do in deciding what outfits to pack. Any creams? Come on, life is all about creams, and hyaluronic acid, to say nothing of retinol and alpha hydroxy lotion.

The airport inspector insisted that I open my luggage, already on the conveyer belt, and remove my lotion stash. Of course, to get to it, I had to paw through pretty much everything else, affording a prime view of my fashion selections, in everything from lingerie to sweatshirts.

Then came the worst; I had to take out each cream, each lotion and put it in a small plastic bag. There it was for all the world to see, a public display of all the armaments I needed to get my face ready to do daily battle.

And what did I get for revealing all that, telling my truths as modern parlance would have it? The inspector said okay. That was it, and then I got to stuff it all back.

The rest of the flight from Oslo to London was uneventful, but London to Boston more than made up for it. The way I think about Heathrow is that somebody had a bad dream and turned it into an airport. There was a security check all over again, creams out once more, but at least I was emotionally prepared.

At our gate, after some 25 or so attendants boarded, I heard another passenger remark to no one in particular, “Are there going to be any seats left for us.”

Seats there were–of a kind. This was a large plane of a design I had never flown on before.

Still, the size of the seats in business class was something of a surprise. (I had used airline miles to upgrade myself). The only way you could fit into these seats was if you were a 13-year-old gymnast or a yoga instructor. I was neither.

I wiggled in and tried to figure out the footrest. It was not attached to the seat or the floor but to the seat in front, with a pull-down handle that left a significant space between feet and seat, creating a real challenge for comfortable or even balanced seating. It reminded me of the classic advice on the London Underground: Mind the Gap.

That was only the beginning of what I could not figure out. I couldn’t get the recline button to work, so I sat bolt-upright for seven hours. I could not get the earphones to work, so the entertainment screen was useless. I could not get the call button to work, so I couldn’t ask the flight attendant how to work anything else. The refrain of the old Gloria Gaynor song “I Will Survive” came to mind.

I was elated as the pilot announced we were approaching Boston, but my trials were not over. The worst was yet to come. The flight attendant, who had studiously ignored my attempts to cope with the adjustment gadgets on the seat, now came over and, in the most solicitous of voices, asked, “Madam, will you be needing assistance in getting off the plane?”

I was dumbstruck. Needing assistance? Me? For once, there were no words. Despite all those creams, did I look that decrepit? What about the four mornings a week I work out and my one weekly session with a trainer? What about being a cub scout leader? That prepares you for anything.

When we landed, I burst from my seat like an Olympic sprinter coming off the blocks.

I have just had a birthday. Age goes in only one direction, but dignity does not diminish. Here it is for the record: I can still get off a plane.