When we travel by air in our brave new world, we are subjected to all sorts of personal invasion. There is the handing over of photo I.D.s, the stripping off of footwear and much of our clothing, and of course, those wacky body scanners that send our sorta-naked visages to a tiny room in the back of the security area, where there’s undoubtedly more pointing and laughing than there is the thwarting of potentially dastardly deeds.
Recently, however, it’s been announced that these strip-machines will soon be taken out of commission, and while we are all happy to know that these involuntary I’ll-show-you-mines will eventually be a thing of the past, there is still one little invasion that is more revealing than any of the other personal indignities of flying: the quart bag.
Back when York and Mounds and Almond Joy were owned by a company named Peter Paul that used to sponsor A Charlie Brown Christmas, there was an infamous ad campaign for York Peppermint Patties. I shall now borrow heavily from it to tell the tale of my relationship with a bag of half-price Christmas candy.
Sometimes I wonder how I can continue to be such a sucker, new year after new year. It’s always that first week of January when the hard realization hits that that this bright shiny new year that I wished everyone in my holiday cards is neither particularly bright nor shiny. And it’s in the second week of January that I’m already tired of this new year.