For me, air travel represents more a psychological journey than a physical one. On the good days it’s just a quick deconstruction and I fall asleep hoping I won’t wake up with particularly difficult to explain morning wood, considering I’m sitting next to a child and her grandmother... and that it's actually the evening.
The bad ones go something more like:
A thirty minute delay at the gate: "I'm fine."
An hour delay on the plane, at the gate, before taxiing: "I'm annoyed."
A forty five minute taxi before we take off: "I'm irritated."
An emergency stop in Buffalo because some woman needed a Xanax: "No, a complimentary cookie just is not cheering me up any longer."
An hour wait in Buffalo because we can't take off without emergency, medicinal oxygen canisters Mrs. Panic attack wasted which evidently they don't stock in airports, only on airplanes: "I swear if you breathe at me wrong I will cut your face off with this plastic knife."
Finding myself locked out of the house at 2:30 am when I should've been home eight hours ago: "Screw it, I'm ringing this doorbell 100 times like I'm seven years old."
And it’s around then you realize you’ve regressed from an adult to a collegiate to a highschooler to a tween to a homicidal lunatic -- which I’ll add is the wild card that can sneak in at any point of your trip and eschew the significance of the experience -- all the way to a juvenile delinquent.
Which I guess is all a roundabout way of saying, "Fuck you, American Airlines."
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