SkyMall
Throughout my flight home from Miami a couple of weeks ago, I had played with the idea of reading it; though I had not yet made the effort to pick it up, I had flown enough to know it was there. Sitting wedged between the safety emergency card and the white barf bag in the back of the seat in front of me, there was bound to be a copy of SkyMall.
It was a feeling I had; I knew it was there waiting for me if only I would stretch out my arms to grab for it, just as one knows how to feel for his or her cellphone on a table in a dark room. As Florida gave way to the Atlantic Ocean and I turned away from the window, SkyMall sat waiting for me to flip through it the moment I decided I was tired of reading the Neil Gaiman novel I had been working my way through since we arrived at the airport early that afternoon.
As a kid, I never was able to pay attention to any one thing for very long while on a plane. The experience of flying was just too exciting! So, when it came time for the flight attendants to hand out the complimentary bags of pretzels and apple juice — which, I might add, is still my favorite in-flight beverage — I’d reach into the seat-back pocket in front of me and flip through the ridiculous little catalogue.
Perhaps the charm of SkyMall was the utterly nonsensical nature of it. The products it contained were either items that solved problems you only realized you had once you opened SkyMall or total junk that no one would need or want — but you always found yourself thinking, “I should get that for my aunt.”
But you never did buy it for your aunt or neighbor or roommate or anyone else, because the minute the wheels of the plane touched down at your destination, the haze of material desire created by the in-flight catalogue seemed to vanish, and even if you took it with you, the experience of reading it was not the same. The flight convinced you that these objects were necessary for happiness, and you had believed the illusion for lack of anything better to do, because you weren’t in the mood for the movie they were showing that trip.
It’s been a while since I opened up a SkyMall, but I can see why its reign must at last come to an end. When I flew to London a few summers ago, the Air Canada plane didn’t even carry any sort of catalogue in the back of the seats. Instead, the chairs were equipped with touch-screen computers in the back that allowed passengers to choose their own entertainment. Whether you were in the mood to catch an episode of Community, chill out to some relaxing beats by artists you probably weren’t familiar with or catch the entirety of Les Misérables, the idea of purchasing an ironic dog bowl for your pet-crazed best friend quickly fled from your mind. This flight made it clear that the world no longer has room for SkyMall.
On the Miami flight, I considered picking up a SkyMall to relive the nostalgia of flying as a kid. I would probably have opened it up to the back, where they had several pages advertising professional-grade replicas from movies such as Harry Potter or The Lord of the Rings, items I had lusted after as a young bookworm but never asked my parents for. I would then flip back to the front and laugh at the weird massage devices before pondering if they really would make my life better. And then I’d imagine what lawn decoration I’d buy if I actually had the money to purchase silly SkyMall gifts for myself.
But I never did reach for that copy of SkyMall a few weeks ago, and now I might never again have the chance to gaze upon its glossy but mysteriously sticky pages again while I await the arrival of the in-flight snack. It is a burden I shall bear with me for many flights to come.
