Our commitment to the goals of Lost in the Feed require of us time and energy that always feels well spent and never regretted, but we also work hard to ensure that our real primary mission – living our lives, enjoying and supporting our families and actually doing versus documenting takes real priority.
This reaffirmation consoled me on Sunday afternoon as I flew back toward Chicago, thinking about how to describe what became of my one single, failed opportunity for Lost In The Feed this weekend. I had boarded the small regional jet in Denver on Thursday evening without realizing how hot and sunny a day it was. Sitting in the forward bulkhead seat generally has its advantages (although legroom and baggage space are not among them), but with the sun streaming through the open door directly onto my seat, I was regretting my decision to board the plane early. I sat, baking in the summer Denver sun, praying both that we’d load the plane quickly so they’d close the door and that each boarding passenger would just pause during that fleeting moment when their profile shadowed my seat, a momentary respite from my increasingly uncomfortable decision.
After a time, as boarding slowed, I noticed that for a moment the sun had become totally blocked. That my hopes for a freak solar eclipse had been answered shot through my mind, but rather an incredibly tall man was waiting for me to move, allowing him access to the window seat next to me. The origami that followed as he folded himself into his bulkhead jail was nothing short of pure art. He was at least a foot taller than I, clearly uncomfortable and unhappy, while I had plenty of legroom if canted just a bit into the aisle. I debated an offer to switch seats, knowing I’d be fine and he’d be more comfortable during the flight but with the sun beating on me it was at best a mixed offer. I decided to wait until they closed the door, so my intentions would not be misconstrued. Finally, deliverance. Door closed, offer ready – and I turn… to find my seat mate completely fast asleep, folded and tucked into his minuscule corner, his expression locked in displeasure.
During the flight back to Chicago yesterday, I thought about the one chance I’d had this weekend to make a difference in a stranger’s life - I could have offered earlier to switch once the door closed, or tried again later in the flight, but I did not. When I landed, I found O’Hare airport surprisingly busy for a mid-summer weekend but after flying as much as I have, navigating the various byways is second nature and I managed to skirt most of the chaos on my way to the parking garage. The garage elevator was so crowded, I moved directly to the back of the car without pressing the button for the roof, figuring I’d press it as people exited on the way up. As we rose, I watched as we stopped floor by floor to let people muscle their bags off, or panic as their kids exited without their most prized possessions, and the roof button remained unlit. I was surprised when the last woman left in the elevator with me asked if I knew where the cabs were found. Knowing we were some distance from the collection of wrong turns and missed signs she’d passed on her way to central parking, and since I’d failed to hit the button, as the elevator was returning to ground level I offer to show her the way back, past the train station, up to baggage claim and back outside toward the cab stand. As we passed back into the terminal she assured me she was re-oriented and thanked me for helping, and I returned to garage wondering with amazement once again how opportunity elects to hide itself only to leap out at the most surprising times.