Carry On...

The airport stresses me out. I always have this awkward sense of urgency to be as efficient as possible when going through security. So as I am unzipping computer cases, taking off my shoes and jacket while balancing two bins, whipping them all into their proper places on the rolling counter, Suzy two left feet and her best friend Georgia cross-eyed are bumping into each other, going through the metal detector with their belts and watches on, and forgetting to take their shoes off. My efficiency is not only worthless as I wait impatiently behind them; it’s just down right stupid. By the way, I didn’t put my bottle of perfume in a clear plastic bag and I didn’t get stopped… hmmm….

So today I smoothly walked through security, looking down at my mismatched socks cursing whatever fool decided to use their shoes for explosives. At least it wasn’t in their shirt. Or Bra. Imagine all the women having to take off their bras. 

So then after redressing myself in sweatshirt, coat, cowboy boots… putting my computer into it’s computer case and getting it inside of my bag which needs to then be secured onto my carryon, I’m sweating. 

Then I’m bored.

Then I call everyone I know. No one’s answering. I should have stayed at the bar longer. Going through security drunk is much better than going through it sober. I take my time, I don’t care if Suzy and Georgia set off the metal detector 18 times… much more peaceful.

So recently I purchased the largest carryon bag with the excitement of not ever having to check a bag again because it will hold everything I could ever need. MISTAKE. This bag has caused me more anxiety than I wish to admit. Being in group 3 or 4 to board means less overhead room. Less overhead room means a smaller chance of my BIG ASS FUCKING BAG fitting anywhere. So I get on the plane, roll the bag as best I can without hitting too many people… and find a spot overhead. Yay. But I need to put down my other bag because it’s too heavy and I won’t be able to lift my carry on. So I put my bag down in 23B and walk back… start getting embarrassed that it might not fit and start VERY awkwardly hoisting the heavy load of bricks up without any help. So I did it… but I’m bright red. I turn to thank the flight attendant who did virtually nothing. She confirms this by saying: “I didn’t do anything.” It is at that moment I notice that she is wearing a red apron and reindeer antlers. Great.

I settle into my seat, put on my iPod, and send a few texts. All the stress is behind me. I am then confronted by a smiling reindeer that asks me if I am in the right seat. It is at that point that I realize I didn’t even look at the letters. I just picked the middle seat in the place I pictured my seat to be. My ticket said 23B. Apparently I was in 23E. How do I manage to do this? More embarrassment. Clearly the letters E and B are not the same… and I literally have no excuse. I’m not even drunk. Ah well.

On top of all of this, I am not very good at flying. I get scared every time we hit turbulence, or when we take off or land… but don’t worry. I have Dancer and Prancer the magical flying reindeer attendants to make me feel safe.

Thank you United. These really are the friendly skies.