They hand me a small disposable Purell Wipe as I board the plane. It’s a nice touch.
The entire boarding process is so remarkably smooth that the only changes I register are the anonymity of masks and the palatable decrease in cortisol being released on a plane where overhead isn’t a precious commodity and the flight attendants aren’t engaged in a Sisyphusian task of boarding an over-sold flight and getting it out with just enough time to allow another crew to scrape by the skin of their teeth.
I know it’s not economical. I know it’s not practical. I know it can’t be maintained. But there is a calm that exists when the efficiencies of clearing runways and shuttling human bodies becomes a distant second to process and safety. And I have enough “sense” to know if this massive erosion of efficiency were allowed to ripple through economies as a whole, that our quality of life would invariably decrease.
But then of course I have to ask that scary question: what’s quality of life, if your body can’t tell the difference?