A Terminal Case of the Travel Blues : The hugs and kisses have ceased. There are no more long airport goodbys for this frequent flier, whose wife would prefer he take the shuttle.

As a comedian I fly a lot. How much is a lot? My wife and I recently celebrated our 12th wedding anniversary. If you deduct the time I’ve spent on the road, it would be more like our eighth. Should I be receiving a rebate of some kind?

I often get asked, “With the constant travel, is it tough trying to keep the romance alive?”

“Yes,” I say like a man scorned, “especially during the many drop-offs and pickups at the airport.”

I used to get a hug. Now I’m lucky if my wife stops the car while driving outside the terminal. “Uh, honey you passed my airline.” “Next time ring the bell.”

In May, when she dropped me off at Burbank Airport for Sacramento, instead of a kiss I got a wink.

Actually, we’ve been married for so long my wife rarely offers to give me a ride to the airport. The night before, she promises to take me. But she wakes me up at three in the morning and says, “You know, if you call the shuttle now, you can still catch your seven o’clock flight.” Thanks, sweetheart.

I hate taking a shuttle because they pick you up two or three hours before your flight. That means I’m actually up four to five hours before my flight. I think I could spend that time doing something more constructive--like sleeping.

Life wasn’t much easier 15 years ago when I was a single guy living on my own. In addition to a ride to the airport, I had to find someone to feed the plants, water the paper and throw away the cat. Ooops, I meant throw away the paper, feed the plants and water the cat.

Back then I would ask my cousin Harry for a ride. We rarely made it to the airport. We lived in South-Central Los Angeles. Harry drove a 1963 Rambler station wagon. He needed the extra seats for the guys who were going to get out and push when it broke down. In June, 1979, it did just that in the fast lane on the eastbound Santa Monica Freeway at about 8 a.m. Some of you may remember us. I remember the occasion because I missed my flight. Harry and I learned a valuable lesson that day. When the gas gauge reads empty, it’s empty.

However, on the rare occasions we made it to LAX, Harry at least gave me a hug. I don’t know if it was because we made it, I helped him push or he was truly going to miss me.

In 1982, wedding bells took my ride away. Harry got married and moved to the Valley. For me it was either buy a car or move to the Valley. I got married instead. And moved to the Valley.

When I asked my wife to marry me, the airlines must have been looking down on me because she worked a block from LAX. In comedic terms, I killed! Then my wife was transferred to Newhall. Great! I could get a ride to Burbank Airport. Now my ride . . . ooops, my wife . . . works in Reseda. She can still give me a ride to Burbank Airport, but as I said, we’ve been married a long time.

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When she picked me up last month, she met me at the curb in curlers and with an attitude. “Couldn’t they fly that plane any faster? One more minute and I was going to leave.”

On the drive home, while she told me how many times she had circled the airport, I dreamed of starting a new type of shuttle service. I’d call it the Love Shuttle. Customers would have a choice of hellos and goodbys.

For instance, $30 would get you the White Zone Goodby. That’s five minutes of kissing, hugging and baby talk at the curb.

For $40 you could get the Beverly Hillbillies Goodby. One or more persons would stand at the gate waving goodby like the Clampetts as you head down the ramp and into the air (a waving baby would be extra).

For as little as $10 you could get the Oh My God We’re Going To Be Late! Goodby. We’d pick you up with less than an hour before your departure, drive like a New York cabby, run to the gate swinging luggage and knocking over Australian tourists, and arrive just in time to hear, “Due to mechanical problems this flight has been canceled.”

For pickups there would be the $50 A Little Too Much Hello. When you arrive at the gate the Cuban Johnny Mathis (the Russian Whitney Houston for men) would belt out “Misty” as we screamed your name, burst into tears and say, “I missed you so much! Don’t ever stay away that long!” You would get a 5-foot-high, stuffed teddy bear, a dozen roses and a confetti procession to baggage claim. Embarrassed yet?

For $10 you could get the Sorry I’m Late Hello. That’s right, we would show up 45 minutes after your arrival and deposit you at Aunt Mabel’s gum surgery party just in time to say, “I missed the strained beef sandwich? Oh well.”

I awoke from my dream when we finally arrived home and my wife complained, “You could have brought me a T-shirt.” I could have stayed in Sacramento. The only person to welcome me home with hugs and kisses (actually licks and licks) was our dog. Now how do I teach him to drive?