I Spent 19 Hours Traveling and It Hurt Me

So coming home for Christmas, I spent 19 hours in some various form of transit. My airplane got delayed in my final layover in Milwaukee, because it broke down. We spent an hour waiting for the crew to pull out a new aircraft, and though I am extremely grateful that I got home safely, I was a very cranky little girl for an hour and wrote this rant. People who work at airports are so valuable, especially during the holidays, but I couldn’t deny you this irrational gem, could I?

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I think the idea of people being annoying is interesting. What makes us annoyed? Why can that annoyance inspire hatred? The kind that makes you say, “I want. Those people. To die.”

I’m sitting in the Milwaukee airport, and I can’t get over the feeling that everyone here is dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb. That’s why the puddle-jumping plane I’m supposed to take back to Pittsburgh is broken down, that’s why it’s going to take more than an hour to get a new plane out of the hangar and that’s why the stupid desk woman was snooty with me when I asked her if this meant our flight would be delayed.

Why is it never “Yes, unfortunately that is the case. Doesn’t that suck? I wish I had a magic carpet right here to fly you back home asap, my friend,” and instead, “Um, YES this will delay your flight??? The maintenance crew has some very IMPORTANT WORK that needs to be done???? They have their CHECKS???? Wouldn’t want you flying on a broken PLANE now WOULD WE???????” No, Grandmother Time, I wouldn’t want to fly on a broken plane, I just wanted to know if the people around here can get it together in less time than it takes to assemble a full aircraft from start to finish.

I’m convinced that every stupid person is on any given airplane, at any given time, always. This, I believe, is with the expressed purpose of destroying the sanity of any of the normal closed-mouth, non-talkers on the flight. You know the type: gender, age and race non-discriminating, this person takes to the plane like they year is 1903 and the Wright Brothers issued a personal invitation for the occasion. This person has some sort of awful rolling carry-on which he or she has refused to check, despite the fact that it is obviously too large for the aisle or the overhead compartment. The fact that the bag now bumps along the elbows and knees of every other passenger on the plane is unbeknownst to her, as she refuses to pick up the damn thing, probably because it has too many pairs of Pajama Jeans in it or something.

Obviously attempting to gather as much oxygen as possible, this person refuses to close his mouth. Why?

Oh my god. I have to interrupt that previous thought for something breaking. There is a girl in front of me doing her stupid hair with her stupid Photobooth camera as we speak. It’s 7 p.m. and we’re in the Milwaukee airport. Unless you’re trying to swing a date with the Neanderthal fry-slinger from Johnny Rocket’s, there is no one on this concourse to impress. She’s one spoke on a three-pronged wheel of death that has been following me from Salt Lake to Denver and now, here, Milwaukee. Mommy Dearest and her two iPhone equipped, Kardashian-wannabe daughters have been doing annoying shit all day. Complaining about Angry Birds and how they don’t have the newest Mario Game that their friend, Christina or something, has. Of course, they are tall and thin with long dark hair that they obsess over in various computer applications, iPhone and MacBook Pro non-exempt. To stay casual, they’re decked out in Victoria’s Secrets sweats and Ugg Boots, but they’re absolutely made-up, because striking that sexy, bed-head balance in the airport is a full-time job, ladies.

I have had the distinct pleasure of seeing them at several instances throughout my day, and I can confidently say that not one of them has done anything except Soduko or Facebook in the last 12 hours. I don’t know how they’re alive. They’re not even trying to watch anything on Netflix. Not one brought a book to read. Buntastic over here is literally looking through her old iPhoto albums. Reminiscing about good times, eh? Or do you just honestly have no ideas about other activities that don’t involve going out, documenting said instance and then reliving it via Facebook? I’m inclined to assume the latter. BUT WHO AM I.

Just a girl, losing her mind after a sleepless night, a three-hour drive at 3 a.m., more than eight hours of combined layover time and now, a broken plane. All I want for Christmas is a frontal lobotomy.

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[DISCLAIMER: I don’t actually want any part of my brain removed.]

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2 thoughts on “I Spent 19 Hours Traveling and It Hurt Me

  1. Santa skimped on the lobotomies this year. I asked for one and was denied. Obviously this is a fantastic piece of ranting; Airports have started to read more like circus rings than transportation hubs, which is equal parts awesome/terrifying. Glad you got home safely, sorry your trip was lame, and I hope you found some time to spit in a terrible straight girl’s hair. Because what is Christmas for if not judging total strangers at the airport?

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