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For me, I’m beyond polite the entire year, save for those ten-minute increments leading up to boarding a flight. I mean, I’m all about thank-you notes and unexpected gifts. I let everyone cut in front of me at the grocery store, even when they’re clearly violating the fifteen-items-or-less sign. I wipe pee off of whatever public toilet I’ve used, even what was there before I went. If there’s ever a debate over who gets the parking space, I always defer to the other driver and God help us all if I wind up at a four-way stop with the like-minded because we’ll be there all day, waving each other on.

I don’t even yell at strangers anymore. (Much.)

Should I be nominated for sainthood given the above? Of course not, because it’s all part and parcel of being a decent human being. No one gives out Congratulations on Not Being a Douche-Canoe medals, because good behavior is part of the social contract. I’m just saying that when presented with the opportunity, I do the right thing.

Except at the airport gate.

My rationale is that I’m an anxious flyer and being first at the gate helps me feel like I have a modicum of control.

Okay, this is mostly a lie.

Rather, I’m this way because I almost never check a bag, so it’s very important for me to get on the plane before everyone else hogs up all the overhead compartments with bullshit that doesn’t deserve space and can be sat upon or with, such as puffy parkas and pillows. (People, we are flying to
New York
City
—I guarantee you they have pillows there. You needn’t bring your own.)

Perhaps in the vein of full disclosure, or in case it wasn’t already obvious, when it comes to air travel, I’m also pushy and petty and have a pathological need to win by being the first person on the plane.

There.

Now
you comprehend why certain people crowd the gate and
you no longer have to stand there, boarding pass in hand, asking yourself,
“What’s with
her
? We’re all going to get to New York at the same time, lady, so there’s no need to roll your damn luggage across our feet in your zeal to embark.”

(Sidebar: That happened only once and I swear it wasn’t intentional.)

Are these valid reasons for us gate-crowders’ collective rudeness? No, but they’re an explanation nonetheless.

Now that I’ve shared this insight maybe someone could return the favor. Please explain to me why so few grasp the concept of emptying their pockets before going through the metal detector, yes, of everything, yes, that includes the wallet, yes, all those nickels, too, yes, the cell phone, and no, they can’t just hold it all in their hands instead of putting it in the little plastic bowl; I’d appreciate it.

Or maybe that’s just the “one thing” for other people, too. In which case, cool.

We’re likely all agreed that airports bring out the worst in us. Whatever bad behavior we’re prone to is simply amplified in the presence of avionics. It’s an altitude attitude, if you will.

I’ve had a lot of time to reflect about travel since I bought my ticket and why I’ve thus far been so hesitant to fly overseas, long after I had the means and miles to do so. Basically, I panic at the idea of being trapped in a tiny seat for so many hours, especially surrounded by all that water. When I was sixteen, I went to Europe and I was somehow convinced we’d be flying over land. Yes, I
had
previously seen a globe, but the way it was explained, I understood our trajectory would skirt Greenland and Iceland and Canadaland and the North Pole, so we’d avoid all the water.

In retrospect, I feel this yarn was spun to keep me quiet.

(Sidebar: I accepted our land-based flight path as fact due to having been more cute than smart in high school. Mind you, I was in my thirties before I realized that Mount Rushmore wasn’t
actually a natural occurrence. Somehow I fully believed that
God
was the one who put all those faces up there thousands of years ago, which is why I didn’t understand why others weren’t in a perpetual state of wonder, marveling over how it was both miraculous and prophetic. Two things to note here: One, Mount Rushmore is no longer on my bucket list, and two, I still harbor animosity toward the Indiana public school system.)

Anyway, because I travel frequently for book tours, I had enough miles to upgrade to Business Class, so I’m delighted by the prospect of not only putting my feet up on this flight, but also checking that item off my bucket list. In the course of this project, I’ve seen dozens of other people’s lists and
fly First Class to Europe
seems to be near the top on almost all of them. I understand there’s a difference between Business and First, but I figure Business Class is close enough. Apparently in First Class, you have both a seat and a bed, but that seems redundantly luxurious, like having a pool
and
a pond, when, really, either one would work for me.

(Sidebar: Congratulations to me for now having worked a
Caddyshack
reference into every book I’ve ever written. RIP, Harold Ramis, you magnificent bastard, and thank you for teaching an entire generation about comedy. You’ll be sorely missed.)

When Fletch comes in a few days, he’s in Economy Class, and again, no apologies. When he accumulates all his miles on tiny prop planes where he has to duck his head upon entry, mashed shoulder to shoulder with the only other fat person on the flight, or whiles away endless hours drinking shitty coffee while sitting on airport floors waiting for his flight to Birmingham, Alabama, to be rerouted, he’ll have earned this indulgence, too.

When I booked my trip, I was content just taking Economy Class to Italy. Going there was reward enough. It wasn’t until after I traveled to Richmond, Virginia, a couple of months ago that I decided to upgrade because this was truly the worst trip ever.

(Sidebar: Yes, even worse than the flight to Raleigh last year
where the pilots completely missed the runway on our descent—largely because we were
flying in sideways
—and then the stall warnings kept buzzing when we lost altitude on our emergency diversion to Greensboro. Even the atheists on that flight found religion by the time we landed safely.)

What’s ironic is that the day started out so well. I arrived at the airport far before my departure time to Richmond and totally breezed through security, as it was my first time with TSA Pre-Check/Global Entry.

Ah, yes,
I thought, watching all those suckers retie their shoes and adjust their belts,
the Travel Gods are smiling upon me.

I was so damn smug, tweeting my record time from car to gate. Yet I should have known to never
be smug on social media because it comes back to bite me in the ass every single time. Karma, if you will.

I was supposed to arrive in Virginia by ten a.m., with seven full hours to relax and practice my speech before dressing for my first event, but the universe had other plans. As I prepared myself to crowd the gate, my flight was delayed due to weather. No one could give us a straight answer on how long we’d have to wait, so our delay was doled out in fifteen-minute increments.

Something had happened to the original flight that was to take us to Richmond (I believe it, too, disappeared, as that is clearly a
thing
now) so we were rerouted to a plane that was coming from Louisville, except the flight from Louisville had been diverted to Indianapolis due to weather so they were maybe going to find us a third plane.

Are you keeping track of this? Because it was certainly problematic for the fine folks at American Airlines.

(We
not
in a fight, though; I can’t stress that enough.)

The night before the trip, Fletch had cooked a stir-fry that hadn’t sat well with me. My stomach hurt, so I really wasn’t
hungry while I waited, despite not eating any breakfast. Plus, I figured I’d get room service upon arrival, positive they’d have grits on the menu. (Grits are like catnip for us Yankees. Ditto for sweet tea.)

Because our delays were meted out as they were, I was worried that if I wandered all the way down to the food court I’d miss my flight. We were departing from L Gate in O’Hare, a never-land so far from the beaten path that I didn’t know it existed until that day, so there wasn’t anything remotely appetizing remotely close.

Finally, after five hours of fifteen-minute delays, we boarded. Or, the rest of the plane covertly boarded while I was in the bathroom. Damn you, stir-fry! I was assigned the bulkhead on this itsy-bitsy plane, so I didn’t have under-seat storage. Plus, everyone had already stormed the gangway and taken all the prime real estate with their pillows and parkas, so I had to stuff my carry-on in a bin half the length of the plane away from me. At this point, I felt the first twinges of hunger, possibly a four on the scale, which was no problem because grits were a-waitin’ in ol’ Virginny.

(Sidebar: I should mention no one actually speaks like this in Richmond.)

Also, I travel with an ample supply of protein bars, peanut butter packets, and trail mix in case we ever do crash-land à la
Lost
, wherein my hoarded Biscoff cookies will be our island’s only form of currency; ergo, I would be queen.

Seriously, it could happen.

The more likely scenario is that there’s some sort of debacle with my flight and I arrive at my hotel after room service shuts down and I make a meal out of whatever I’m carrying.

Either way, I’m prepared.

We finally loaded up all the angry travelers and as soon as we shut the doors and prepared to pull out from the gate, the sky opened up and began to hurl fist-sized chunks of hail down upon
us. We were absolutely pummeled for a solid ten minutes, causing another delay. The pilot told us not to leave our seats for our own safety; thus my PowerBars were just out of reach. The airport closed down, with us trapped on the tarmac in a minuscule sardine can.

Mmmm,
I thought,
sardines.
I was down to a two on the scale, meaning I was hungry enough to have happily woofed down a briny plateful of Nature’s Boniest Mistake.

Once the airport reopened, we had to wait for the plane to be inspected to make sure there was no hail damage. As every jet in the airport had to be scrutinized, this took a while, and apparently required us to remain in our seats. I suspect our needing to sit down was less for our safety and more to keep us all from badgering the flight attendant are-we-there-yet style. (To be clear, I have no complaints here because I’d rather wait than take unnecessary risks.)

An hour and a half later, when I was at zero on the scale and ready to chew off my own arm for sustenance, we finally pulled away and began to taxi. But instead of going to an actual runway where we may have, say, built up enough speed to become airborne, we instead took a slow, steady, sightseeing cruise around the periphery of the airport, much like how I used to aimlessly drive around the McDonald’s parking lot in high school, as that’s what passed for entertainment in 1980s Huntington, Indiana, home of the subpar academic curriculum.

Oh, God,
McDonald’s
.

At that point I would have done unspeakable things to that creepy redheaded clown for a single McNugget.

Unspeakable.

We putted along for so long that I assumed the new plan was to simply
drive
to Richmond. The pilot finally announced that we were cleared for takeoff and everyone in the plane let out a collective cheer. Our glee lasted for all of two minutes when the pilot made a second, decidedly more sheepish announcement that
someone
hadn’t gotten the requisite hail-damage sign-off, so we had to pull over until a dude in a van could drive up and deliver the paperwork.

I didn’t know who
someone
was, but I suspect he or she was in for a stern talking-to.

At this point, I was ready to pass out from hunger, but I still wasn’t allowed to get up from my seat. I was so close to my pistachio nuts and dried cranberries, yet so very far.

I was my own personal O.Henry story.

The notion of O.Henry made me think of an Oh Henry! chocolate bar, which almost brought me to tears.

That’s when I noticed there was a bulge in my sweater, ironic because that meant that
I
was the asshole going through the metal detector with loaded pockets.

When I reached in, I realized why I hadn’t set off an alarm. I wasn’t carrying coins or keys or Krugerrands; instead, I had a pocketful of dog food pellets. I don’t remember the whens or wheres of having loaded up with kibble, but that certainly sounded like something I’d do, as I’m always using food to bribe the dogs to behave.

(Sidebar: With this technique, I would have very fat children. Very fat.)

I’ve been buying the guys this fantastic, organic, grain-free, superhealthy stuff, chock-full of delicious and nutritious antioxidants, manufactured in a human-food-grade facility. As I held up these concentrated bits of beefy protein, I swear my mouth began to water.

But, come on, it’s not like I didn’t have some damn pride.

Besides, we’d be in the air soon enough, where magical carts full of pretzels and Pepsis abound and salvation was mere steps away. I began to plan my snack—I’d smear Justin’s Vanilla Almond Butter on crackers as an appetizer (or perhaps I’d go all tequila-shot with it,
squeezing it directly into my mouth; I was still deciding), followed by a satisfyingly chewy main course of Trader Joe’s Turkey Jerky, with Nutella-dipped Biscoff for dessert. I would feast like the King of the Minibar!

The minute the wheels left the ground, however, it was clear this was to feel less like a “flight” and more like “a lone tube sock sloshing around in the washing machine’s spin cycle.”

Our plane was a toy boat bobbing atop a roiling ocean, so no one was getting up, not for love, money, or Trader Joe’s Turkey Jerky. When we finally had respite enough to be served drinks, I was trapped in my spot by the beverage cart, where my only option was water without benefit of pretzels.

Suddenly, the concept of air rage made sense. Whither hast thou gone, honey-roasted nuts? Ginger ale, where art thou? WHY ARE WE BEING SERVED ONLY WATER?