Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Russ, Don't Eat the Truckster.

Ah, the joy that is travel. Yesterday I embarked upon my annual trek home. It was spiced up by the fact that I was flying the same morning as my friend's boyfriend and would have a companion. I promptly went stand by to try to get on his flight. And that is where my innate ability to foul things up took over.

When entering the airport, I realized that the line was at least a mile long. And I'm not exaggerating. Well, perhaps a little, but not much. As I followed the line back trying to find the end, I turned corner after corner and continued to face more people. Finally, my friend saw me and I cut in line with him. What luck, right? Well.

I stood and talked with him for about, oh...20 minutes as the line edged up and we started discussing self check in, which I am a strong advocate for, but - as I told him - was unable to use this morning because of standby. I was sure hoping to get stand by.

"You mean you don't have a boarding pass?" he said to me.

"Uh, noooo...hello? We're in line for that?" I gave him my most polite "duh" expression and turned back to the line.

"This is the security line," he explained. Oh no. I rolled my eyes and took off for the appropriate counter, hoping it was a short line. It was. I got my psuedo boarding pass for going standby, dropped off my 50 pound bag and darted back to the endless line, hoping he hadn't already gone through. Victory! He flagged me down just before he was headed through securtity.

Ignoring glares from other passengers in line, I ducked under the top notch security ropes; I was full of agility and poise and I was...stuck. I was hung. My tennis racket handle jutting out of the top of my backpack was now thoroughly and completely entangled in the security ropes. I was trapped in a yoga-esque sliding move hunkered way down on the floor. The people who were previously glaring were now smirking. The boarding pass checker lady was less than amused. My friend hastily untangled me and we played it casual through the security check. (Who, me? What?)

The rest of the flight was pretty uneventful. I went to the rental car counter where I had arranged for a compact vehicle to cart me around for a couple of days.

Rental Car Guy: I see here that we have you down for a compact. Is that going to be enough room for you?

Me: Yes, sir! It's just me. (and my 50 pound luggage, beach bag, and aforementioned backpack with racket sticking out top, I thought)

RCG: Can I interest you in a convertible or a PT Cruiser?

Me: No, thanks. (polite smile)

RCG: Why not?

Me: (Bah? Is no thanks not sufficient?) Because convertibles mess up my hair and I hate PT Cruisers. I got stuck with one when I went to L.A. and I really didn't like it. Thanks, though.

RCG: You could put a ponytail.

Me: No! I wouldn't use it! It's too humid! I get sweaty! [I can't believe I'm having to defend my car preferences to this guy]

RCG: [with attitude] Your loss. [saunters away to get my keys]

I relaxed and went outside with my 80 pounds of gear to meet him. Some other guy drove up with my car. RCG was nowhere to be seen. My car was a PT Cruiser. Sigh.


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