Hello. It’s me.
I’m just your typical college student trying to get home for Thanksgiving.
Yes, I did choose to go to a school 2,000 miles away from home.
Yes, I will only be home for three whole days. Those 72 hours are precious.
Yes, I will be checking this massive rolling bag. Don’t look at me like that.
Yes, I do know how to go through security quickly because I was not raised to believe I am the sole human being on this planet that has somewhere I need to be. I’m looking at you, woman in the stilettos with a hundred different straps. Please let random selection be a little less random and send her through pre-check so none of us have to deal with that nonsense. (No hate to your sense of style though. Like, goals.)
I’m sorry, airports, I don’t mean to be petty. You are only here to help me get back across the country so I can spend a beautiful Thanksgiving with my loving family after all. But graciously allow me these few moments of red-faced, tantrum-throwing.
My endgame here is the same as yours: to get me out. I don’t want to be here as much as you don’t want me here. So, please don’t put on my ticket that I should arrive at my gate at least an hour early. That will undoubtedly signify to my (usually rightfully) over-prepared mother that I should be here at least three (and-a-half) hours before the earliest call time. I don’t want to spend another five-hour block of time watching people eat Cinnabon's and pretending like I don’t want a second (or third).
Please let every single person with a briefcase and power suit board first. I really don’t care what their ‘zones’ are. They are going to throw elbows to get overhead space no matter where on the boarding hierarchy they are. For the sake of those who don’t feel entitled enough to shove a teenage girl away from a storage space she wasn’t even going for, please, just let them go.
Hello, first class passengers. It’s your friendly, neighborhood rubbernecker. Yes, I am going to stare at each and every one one of you just for the off chance that you might be John Stamos eating greek yogurt. It does not help that you keep your sunglasses on and tuck into your little cubby like you have something to hide as the rest of us shuffle to the back. Give us this potential moment of stardom before we willingly give ourselves over to six hours of too-little legroom. I once saw Sally Field, so I feel like I’m going on pretty solid ground to keep searching.
That’s all I guess. Tantrum over. (P.S. Thanks to all the airport personnel dedicated to keeping us travelers safe. Despite my whining, I know everything is done for a reason and I appreciate it.)
