It has all become so routine, this space travel. I am far from the first citizen in space. That happened long ago, and miraculously there have been no recent tragedies upon liftoff or reentry. But this is a risky business, and I have a profound talent for rumination. Why then, you ask, would I dream of signing up to be blasted into space, around the moon and back?
Consider that I’ve never even been a big fan of flying. Each trip on an airplane, no matter how comforting the statistics, rips me from my routine, awakening in me the realization that I dearly love my life and am not ready to be blasted into whatever comes next. I rarely sleep the night before a flight. As departure nears, I become ever more a sensate being, on fire with awareness of sights, sounds and the relentless pull of time as each precious moment passes. Now I’m leaving the house, then exiting the cab and soon watching my luggage leave me behind at the ticket counter. Nearby I’m scanned and examined by suspicious TSA, and before you know it, I’m making my way down the lengthy concourse, a dead man walking.
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