I’m on a plane, and the 55 minute gate to gate flight from LAX to OAK seems to just keep getting longer as we watch the numbers creep up to the inevitable, and between trays of drinks and trash pick ups I feel a sense of dread creeping up inside me. This is going to be one of those days when, 20 years from now when we’re asked about it, each of us will remember vividly where we were, who we were with, what we were wearing. This is going to be the JFK assassination, Loma Prieta, 9/11. This is not good.
I look down the aisle. How many of these people are watching the numbers climb in exaltation? How many are ready to celebrate victory? How can I respond professionally if a passenger says something to my face?
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” the attendant working…