I’ve got a sister who doesn’t have much use for traveling beyond New England ever again. She’s also never had much love for wearing a bra. That’s just the way she is, and to me this is totally acceptable. Opting into these has never really bothered me before— I find great utility in both the supportive powers of both a cute and functional bra as well as in heading out to discover a place that is completely new. She had her perspectives, and I had mine. Then this and last year hit me. I’ve changed my thoughts on at least one of these things. 

I’m writing this while momentarily abandoning my browser that has open three webpages from the Dutch government. From yesterday there is a stale page from the United States’ Center for Disease Control. Another tab has my email open with a letter from Delta Airlines. 

If conditions over the coming week hold firm (and they should), I will be flying home for a bit of a Cape Cod summer. I initially tried to make the trip easy, securing direct flights and feeling relatively confident that the rules were clear. But then my flight got canceled without the airline notifying me. A minor inconvenience considering the company is a basket case and I at least discovering the cancellation over a week out. But the new flight now has a connection, and with it comes the requirement to do more double and triple checks about the rules. And one must be careful not to check too early because right now we’re all living in sandcastles built and constantly being re-fortified on the shore at high tide. Many aspects of life that we once took for granted continue to be TBD. 

But my version of life is not remarkable. I am fully aware of my status as a grain of sand on Chapaquoit beach. My singular movement is inconsequential to the world’s surroundings. And while we all of us might be fed up right now for different reasons, I feel as though it does no good for me to bemoan the dynamic administrative details that come with travel. Instead, I look at where I’m at and contrast it to my life just a few years ago. The time when I needed to get more pages added to my passport while living in Senegal. Travel through airports was practically a part of my circadian rhythm. 

Now, looking at my laptop while propped up in bed, I look again at this airline email sitting in my inbox regarding my upcoming flight. It’s to help me get anticipate the new and country-dependent requirements associated with COVID. The email from Delta Airlines isn’t exactly helpful…it more can be summed up as reading, “You’re probably gonna have to do some specific and extra stuff if you want to get from Point A to Point C via Point B. Here is a link to the internet to try and figure it out before you leave.”

Great.

This is how I got to all those webpages discussing the required health forms from the Dutch government. My layover is through The Netherlands—and while I sincerely appreciate the frankness of the Dutch people, I don’t want to get this experience wrong. I just want to get to my Point C more or less on time. 

And this is also how I’ve gotten to the point where I’m starting to empathize with my sister in some small ways.  While clicking through all these pages, something inside the left cup of my bra keeps irritating my boob. I itch it a bit but the feeling doesn’t go away. I want to take the damn thing off. And now, with the ever-changing travel regulations, I’m starting to not recognize the Megan who once enjoyed navigating airports. Right now and for the foreseeable future, I don’t want to go anywhere. 

Note that I am not complaining at all about the face masks. I will wear them—to quote my mother—until the cows come home. I keep my vaccination card close at hand and feel generally good about doing my part to protect myself and others in the community writ large. I accept that this pandemic places us in a new and somewhat irritating position where we must act more like a collective if there is any hope of ending this freaking awful game of COVID Twister. 

Sometime very soon I will return to those Dutch webpages. I have my COVID test scheduled for the end of the week, and indeed I will put on my grown-up bra and wade into the Fiumicino airport in just a few days. And while this all does translate into a minor gripe, I feel as though this experience will transform me. Day by day I’m getting older and more tired. Sitting on my ass on a terrace, drinking a gin and tonic while watching planes fly overhead sounds far more appealing than being shot across the sky. I very well could be turning over a new leaf and choose to opt out of the travel and mass gathering Olympics nearly altogether—but only time will tell. 

Perhaps if we can convince the rest of those who can to get vaccinated, then our collective sense of malaise won’t last as long. As anyone who has ever stood in a busy airport or train station knows, your individual actions can have a very real impact on how the rest of us will or won’t get somewhere. I hate to be pessimistic, but at the moment I now own more face masks than bras. And while I won’t be traveling as much, I can see myself wearing both for the foreseeable future.