Easter at 36,000 feet

Peep sushi from Mikuni in Sacramento!

Another day, another plane (or three), and I find myself in the Windy City. On Easter. All by my lonesome.

For what might be the first time in (my) history, I did not celebrate Easter in some fashion. No church, no chocolate, no Easter bunnies. I did get to have coffee with my beloved before he dropped me at the airport, but other than that, I’ve been traversing the skies like any* other day.

Although I did see a couple Southwest gate agents with bunny  ears, and a few children carrying yellow and green plush duckies, my time between Sacramento, Denver and Midway airports was entirely** unremarkable. (Well, unless you count our first plane that was broken before take-off. As I told my grumpy co-passengers: Better a mechanical ON THE GROUND than in the air. Trust me, I’m Twitter Girl. ha!)

While eating fish and chips in the pub next door to my downtown Chicago hotel (cool, by the way!), I got to thinking about what I *should* be doing. If history serves, I *should* be eating dinner with my fam (spring BBQ fare apparently). I *should* be devouring mounds of chocolate from the Easter basket that my mom keeps on the counter. I *should* be stuffed from Easter brunch still. I *should* have decorated some eggs or at least watched children do it (do they still smell like vinegar?). I *should* be watching the Ten Commandments with Charleton Heston because it’s tradition. I *should* be wearing a frilly pink frock with a wide-brim white straw hat and gloves. (Sorry, I went back in time too far!)

But I’m a woman without tradition today and I realize how sad it makes me feel. Officially: Waaaaa!

Of course, on the flip side, I certainly appreciate that I’ve been fortunate to celebrate most holidays with my loved ones. Let’s hope I get back to that soon.

In the mean time, what are your Easter or Passover traditions?

xoxo,
shawna

* That flying around God’s green is completely normal is still strange to me!

** Okay, not entirely unremarkable. I decided (too soon, perhaps) that the PERFECT middleseat companion is a child +/- 7 years of age. They’re old enough not to cry, but small enough not to crowd the arm rest. Genius right? Right. Unless said child’s mother reads stories about wolves and Eskimos and smoking caribou carcasses at volumes that drown out jet engines. Gah. (I cranked up the Ipod and I’m pretty sure I’m deaf now.)

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