By Lisa Smith Molinari

“Call me when you arrive, love you,” my husband, Francis, said, putting my carryon on the curb. Leaning in for a hurried kiss, he inadvertently hit my left nostril, before I scurried into the airport for my flight.

When I fly, I experience tiny panic attacks at each crucial step in the process. As soon as the double doors at arrivals closed behind me, it started. “[Gasp!] Where’s my boarding pass?!” It was in my purse, where I’d put it two minutes before.

I wheeled my carryon to the TSA check area and entered the maze of ropes intended to corral hundreds of passengers. However, Providence Airport was nearly empty, so I zig-zagged back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. One other woman giggled every time we passed each other. I almost mooed at her in mutual

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