Frequently Wrong, Rarely in Doubt

I went to the aquarium convention with the same quiet confidence that precedes all personal downfalls. I told myself I was “just going to browse.” Famous last words. Two aisles in and I’m doing the thing every respectable aquatic addict does: narrowing my eyes at a display case like I’m scanning a dating app, except the profile pictures are shrimp and none of them will ghost me (except for the ones that do, because nature is cruel).

Then I locked eyes with one – the shrimp. Shimmering, delicate, the kind of translucent little aristocrat that looks like it spends weekends listening to lo-fi while journaling. It moved with the confidence of something that knows it’s a limited edition. I could almost believe they were sentient enough to be smug about it.

I should clarify that I already own shrimp. Many shrimp. An embarrassing number, if one were to quantify it. They have names and some even have backstories. There are lineage charts, feeding logs, and at least one spreadsheet titled Shrimp Mortality, 2023–Present. I have shrimp that are the result of my own well-intentioned but ultimately disastrous breeding experiments – tiny reminders that hubris has consequences.

And yet, these convention shrimp were something else entirely. They gleamed like living gemstones, arranged by color gradient. They had posture. They exuded the aura of creatures who subscribe to niche newsletters and attend gallery openings. I felt an immediate, irrational need to possess them – not as pets, but as living proof that beauty can, in fact, thrive in water parameters that are mostly good, but never perfect.

And then – because balance is a lie – I saw the Black Devil snails. Little spiral-shelled janitors, glossy as a new vinyl record. One had a chip in its shell like a tiny battle scar and instantly my maternal instinct kicked in. He’s had a hard life, I thought. I could fix him. 

Of course I told myself I was “just admiring.” That lasted until I was comparing substrate textures like a lunatic and murmuring “he’d prefer driftwood” under my breath. I began mentally rearranging one of my tanks to accommodate him: a slow, luxurious layout of driftwood, Java fern, and ethically sourced aqua gravel. The kind of tank a snail could really thrive in.

Then came the bureaucratic tragedy. When I asked how to transport my potential new dependents, the vendor’s expression changed to one of gentle pity – the look of a person who has explained this many times before and has stopped believing in hope. “You can’t fly with them,” she said.

TSA, it turns out, classifies shrimp and snails as invasive species or pests. I classify TSA as emotionally stunted.

What’s particularly maddening is that there is a postal loophole: while I am forbidden to carry a snail in a sealed plastic bag through airport security, I can, without issue, pay the United States Postal Service to mail that same snail across the country in a cardboard box labeled perishable. The mail, apparently, is a lawless zone—a black-market mollusk syndicate operating under government oversight.

If the postal system—an organization that routinely misplaces birthday cards—can deliver live snails, what moral authority does Delta Airlines have to deny me the same privilege? Why must I entrust my beloved hypothetical shrimp to a process that also regularly delivers my neighbor’s Bed Bath & Beyond coupons to my mailbox?

At one point, I briefly considered concealing a snail inside an empty water bottle. Then I remembered that being added to a no-fly list for “mollusk trafficking” would be difficult to explain on future job applications. In the end, I did not buy them. I left the convention physically empty-handed but spiritually a hostage to what-ifs. 

Back at home, I tiptoed to my tanks and whispered, “You’re fine. You’re great. You’re… not them.” I fed my residents like nothing had happened and tried to convince myself that love from a distance is still love. Later that evening, I began to plan a road trip. Because apparently, that’s the only way to successfully commit aquatic smuggling. USPS may run the mollusk mafia, but until airlines figure out empathy, I’ll keep my dreams in a cooler bag and my hope in the glove compartment.