It wouldn’t be an airport visit without at least two schraaawkward moments. One wouldn’t be enough. Unless it was a doozy, I probably wouldn’t even write about it. It’s okay though. There were two. So far. Well, three, really, but I don’t want to recount my security mishap with the TSA agent. It’s too personal.
I boarded the plane. Last, as usual. Zone 4. I’m apparently the only person ever in zone 4 because by the time it’s my turn to board, there’s not another creature stirring at the gate. In fact, the person sitting next to me on the plane was already asleep when I arrived to my seat. I had to tap her on the shoulder so I could get through. I startled her even though I tried to be as non-invasive as I could.
It was one of those flights where the carry-on cubbies were crafted in such a way that they actually can’t fit carry-ons so they check your bag at the gate and tell you you can pick it up at your final destination. The next stop was my final destination but I simply did not want to deal with that. Never mind I’d have three hours waiting at the airport in MKE for my ride and plenty of time to retrieve it. Just never mind.
I travel with a duffel bag, like a high school athlete. None of those convenient roll-y luggage contraptions. And I like to make the most of it, so I jam it full. I got to the gate agent and said, “Do you think I’m alright? It’s pretty squishy,” and proceeded to prove to her how pliable my duffel bag was with all its pliable filling. I’m guessing she was tired of the process and seeing as I was the last to board, she let it slide.
So on I go. Past first class. I wouldn’t even dream of trying to fit my over-sized duffel bag in their spacious carry-on cubbies where there was still a plethora of space with no one to fill it. Don’t worry. I found a compartment with some room near my section of the plane and proceeded to hike my bag up and shove it in. Whilst holding my winter coat and also-oversized purse. You know, my personal item.
I realized I kept whipping the person sitting there in the face with my coat as I struggled to make my bag fit. I certainly apologized and it was sincere. Even if it happened again.
After a minute or so, I’d worked up a sweat. I took a break because there was no one behind me waiting to find their seat, you know, because I was the last one on and all. I asked a couple near me, “Alright guys, if you were me, what would you do right now?” They simply did not respond. Not even a sympathetic facial expression. Literally. No. Response. From anyone. In the whole dang plane. And rest assured, everyone in the whole dang plane saw me reap said consequence of not wanting to pick my bag up at baggage claim.
Finally, the flight attendant walked over and said, “I can shut that. Take a seat please.” Annoyed she was. I sighed a sigh of relief and said, “Thank goodness. I am sweating!” Why I felt the need to announce to the travelers of Delta flight 4738 that I was sweating when it was already clear they did not understand my humor is beyond me.
But, until next time friends, can’t stop, won’t stop.
Schraaawkward 