W
ith the holiday season now behind us, the airline industry is sure to see a steady decline in business until summer or fall springs upon us. Having taken four separate flights within the past two months, I, for one, am especially glad that I will not have to set foot in an airport until the semester ends. The airport is my equivalent to purgatory; it is the temporary place of severe and unbearable punishment. And with a delayed flight, airports can feel like hell: a place of eternal, everlasting punishment. You know how after you ride “It’s a Small World” in Disneyland, and you feel the urge to lobotomize yourself while eating an overpriced churro for the next six hours? That pretty much sums up every airport experience I’ve ever had (the urge to self-lobotomize, mixed with high-priced, crappy food, with a dash of nonstop hullabaloo playing continuously in my head).
Flying is a colossal, chaotic, contemptible construction created by crazy, cash-hungry corporations. Airports are like men: can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em. It’s a Catch-22. Upon entering an airport, one’s senses are immediately overwhelmed. It’s noisy, claustrophobic and a nightmare for germaphobes. On average, it takes a minimum of 35 hours to check your baggage and you’re always stuck behind the guy with 18 suitcases. Once you’ve finally checked your luggage, you make your way to your next 35-hour wait: the security line. After the TSA worker looks at your ticket and ID, making sure to give you an especially disgruntled glare, you make your way off to the lovely land of the X-rated X-rays, where you’re subject to sexual violation by the new 21st century full-body scanning machines.
You know those signs posted before you ride a roller coaster that read, “you must be this tall to ride the ride?” I believe before you enter this part of the airport experience, there should be a sign that states, “You must be this sane to enter this portion of the security line,” because we all know once you step into that never-ending line-o’-doom, a little part of your soul dies. Not a huge part, but just enough to make you want to rip your brains out. And that’s when the aforementioned lobotomizing begins to play a part. This is where you really see human nature and all of its glorious stupidity come out full throttle.
Forced to disrobe shoes, jackets, jewlery, hats or anything else that might contain your homemade bomb, you quickly hustle through the line—for the people behind you are glued to your rear, making sure you spend no more than 22 seconds putting your carry-ons and clothes through the metal detector. Oddly enough, you are also required to take out your laptop and load it separately from your other belongings. Theoretically, your laptop might contain a bomb or conceal a weapon, but the only thing I’m hiding in there is my previous internet history (insert rimshot here). Airports have been here since the beginning of mankind (or 1928, to be exact), so I have to laugh when I see people go through the metal detector and consistently set off the alarm. Oh wait, did I say laugh? I meant self-lobotomize. But you know those oblivious individuals, who either forget to empty their pockets carrying their Mr. T gold chains or take off their belt buckles, which are made solely of aluminum? People, you know the routine: Empty your pockets, take off your jewelry and stop holding up the rest of the line for everyone else! We have places to go and people to see!
After stepping through the metal detector and having the TSA agent (who obviously hates her life by the Kristen Stewart-esque pout on her face) check out your naked body, you’re off to your terminal. You take off your glasses, step on that weird moving walkway and transform from Clark Kent to freaking Superman. You out-walk everyone at superhuman speeds, rush to your terminal and … your flight is delayed. It’s another 35-hour wait, so what to do? Hit up the bar, buy yourself an obnoxiously over-priced $13 beer and befriend the 65-year-old drunk lady on her way to Seaside Heights for some much needed R&R.
After waiting for more than a combined total of 105 hours (give or take), you board the flight and all is well, right? Wrong. This is where the theoretical lobotomy would take place. You sit down and pray to the almighty gods that Chatty Cathy doesn’t sit next to you. But of course, she does, so you spend the whole flight making small talk with some necktie enthusiast 45,000 feet in the air. You’re then forced to turn off your cellphone, for if you don’t you’ll be sure to have a flight attendant scold you like a bitter Catholic school nun. If you’re anything like me and prone to intense panic attacks, they’ll be sure to hit you right as the flight takes off. Hooray. Add in screaming babies, children kicking the back of your seat, old men in front of you who recline their chairs directly into your sternum, turbulence and altitude-induced ear-clogging and you’ve got yourself one hell of a ride.
Ultimately, you land safely and the wonderful experience has ended. And then you’re notified the airline has lost your luggage. Thanks for nothing, Wright brothers.
