When I was little, maybe one or two, we used to fly up to Sacramento to visit my grandma. That was back in the day, when you could still show up minutes before your departure time, frantically check in your luggage and make a mad dash for the gate (Dad tells me there used to be a commercial with OJ Simpson running through the airport, leaping over people and sprinting to the airplane — so I guess we weren’t the only ones).
Apparently, I would giggle the entire way — I thought it was a game — oblivious to my parents’ panic as we rushed through the terminal, me bouncing up and down in my dad’s arms laughing like a crazy person. Somehow, we always made it in the nick of time, finding our seats moments before the doors closed and the plane transported us to Sacramento. Continue reading