I love to travel, but hate flying. But if I wanna hang out with my awesome friends who live far away, I gotta deal with all the crap that goes along with it. I bit the bullet and flew up to DC yesterday for a fabulous Halloween weekend with my favorite people.
While standing in what seemed like the longest security line ever, I spotted a guy trying to cut the line. I hate cutters. Line cutters, that is. You might be more important than me, and you might have a more important place to be, but the fact is you’re still flying coach with the plebes. So chill out and wait like the rest of us suckers.
I kept looking at him, trying to place him because he looked so familiar. He reminded me of someone I’d seen in a movie or TV show, but I just couldn’t figure out who. Then it hit me. Peter Griffin from Family Guy. That's right - the guy with an ass for a chin. He looked exactly like him! A real life Peter. When I realized it, I had to turn my face because I couldn’t contain my grin.
He was supposed to be three people behind me. But he was trying to cut two people in front of me. Ooo ahh, Peter, being in front of five whole people is really gonna make all the difference in your day. I saw others in line noticed he was cutting too and decided to wait and see what happened. The guy he tried to cut in front of eventually moved up quickly so Peter couldn’t cut. The guy in front of me did the same thing, and I followed suit as did the guy behind me. The fifth person was nice or maybe just timid and let Peter cut. I’m sure that was a sweet victory for the lazy bastard.
Before I knew it, I was standing in another line. The line to get on the freaking plane already. I hate the zones. Why do they have zones? As if relegating us to “coach” isn’t enough, they have to place us in another hierarchical order of importance.
And where did “coach” come from anyway? I don’t get it. I’m not a coach. Maybe there was once a Joe the Coach like Joe the Plumber, and he was some kind of everyman all us schmoes were supposed to identify with. Or maybe it just sounded better than "Last Class" or "The Po' Folks Section."
Regardless, I always manage to be in the last possible zone. Zone 7. Which means I’m one of the last to board the plane, which means I’m one of the last to put my stuff in the overhead bins, which means I usually have to move shit around or store my stuff five rows back. Really, though, I’m not bitter.
So I’m standing in line contemplating my inferior place in the world and who I’d have to flash to score a Zone 5 pass. I mean, I’d settle for Zone 5, geez. And I hear an argument behind me. There’s a young married couple with a toddler in a stroller. I hear the woman exclaim, “We’re not sitting together?"
"You didn’t click sit together? Why didn’t you click sit together?”
“I dunna know, you didn’t tell me to.”
“It’s called common sense!”
At this point, I start to silently chuckle and pray they don’t notice my shoulders bouncing up and down in hysterics. Because sorry, bro, but it is common sense.
“It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. We’re not sitting together. It’s common sense. You should’ve known to click sit together.”
“So we’ll just get someone to switch with us.”
“You. You’ll get someone to switch with you. I can’t believe this.”
I can’t believe this either, lady, I’ve already been amused by some pretty entertaining characters, and I’m not even on the airplane yet. Who needs to pay ten bucks for a tiny bottle of cheap wine when you've got clowns like this around you?
I tried to keep an eye on them once we were on the plane to see if they did switch seats. I couldn’t tell, but I did hear the woman say, “I can’t believe we’re not sitting together.” And sigh loudly. Not sure if that helped their case or not. I do know that was one bumpy ride…