Is that too arrogant a title, if the pretty thing in question is me? I don't know, except that's not entirely the point I'm making, and 'ritual' would be a far more appropriate word, except it doesn't start with "P". So here you go.
Another word that starts with P is Prague, which is where I am writing this from. And it's been a minute, being caught up, as I've been, with other flights and with yoga in-between. Perhaps that's why I find it easier to skulk around here, my eyes on my trusted tablet, instead of going out exploring. I will, in a minute. Keep telling myself.
It was a pretty insane flight over last night. I get weird before a plane, for all the flights I've taken in my life, like it's really anything more than getting on a bus. I never learned to like planes, but until they invent teleportation or rocket travel becomes viable, it is what it is.
I got on the plane all weird and janky from opening doors I should've left closed. I told you about that before. In the privacy of my own sweet name, it gets tricky doing the whole bravado. You should see the other guy? See for yourself.
It didn't help that the first half an hour or so was extremely turbulent, darkened and bumpy. I sat there in my aisle seat, listening to my podcast, wondering... what if I die listening to Anthony Bourdain?
There are, I'm sure, worse things.
And all the while, paradoxically only in the way people can be, planning for the future, listening to an episode of Parts Unknown on the Greek Islands. Great, elating stuff, the kind of listen that makes you excited for whatever adventure is coming up next, and even has you shrugging if the plane's gonna go down. What of it, then.
Would like to see them Greek Islands, though. Which was how I'd settled on that episode in the first place.
Bourdain, the ultimate traveler, and so much more to see of this little, insufficient, incredibly vast planet. How does that happen.
Rakia and a good life. Could be the motto of most true-blooded Romanians, but somehow, that s**t just hits different when there's remoteness and the big blue sea within earshot. Future plans.
Taking my cue from a hero of mine. I'd actually read a quote by him just the other day, which is perhaps what put me in mind of Bourdain in the first place. Something along the lines of,
The body isn't a temple. It's an amusement park.
Found it strange and funny and true. In ways, ironic, having spent a good deal of time scrubbing and preening, waxing and moisturizing. Making myself pretty. I always did enjoy the ritual before a date. Patriarchy BS though it is, I know. But each time, somehow, takes me back to the very first date I went on, all the being mortified if I'd look or feel enough. That's changed, but I've kept the ritual, and in a way, enjoy even more these dates across the airspace we're having, though they're slowly coming to an end, also. Going through the ritual before the vastly more laborious (and more mundane, also) ritual of plane-riding.
Flying and being flown to. How little space becomes, when there's someone you've got to get to.
But to me, that's only marginally what the quote tied in to. I like going through some of the stuff, but don't kick myself too much about it. Rituals of beautification or no, I understand myself by different measures now. Much more, it slammed up against my orthorexic tendencies. My high, impossible, grating expectations of my own body. My obsessive nature.
I do think we're slowly suffocating in a culture that's become obsessed with things like biohacking and wellness to the point of mummification, which is something we oughtta be really careful about. This obsessive terror of aging (more scary, I think, than death itself to us) isn't gonna do anyone any good. So maybe amusement park is closer to it than temple.
And in such thoughts, and in such distractions, an entire plane ride went by. Oh well. I guess I should move, huh.
