I'll only have coffee with you if you lift my bag into the overhead bin.

I’d hate to disappoint any of you by making my way through an airport without incident. I’m in one so often, that by now I should have had at least one trip wherein I didn’t exit the airport and start off a conversation with, “SWEET MOSES YOU WILL NEVER GUESS WHAT JUST HAPPENED TO ME!”

But, you know, where would be the comedic relief in THAT?

I decided not to check any of my bags this week despite the fact that my roller bag was of hernia inducing heaviness. It’s made by Swiss Army which means that a bomb could go off inside of it and you would only hear a small thump if you were standing nearby. That, and the bag might move slightly. But! no harm would come to you. (This is not something you ought to mention in earshot of TSA agents. It ends in a full body cavity search.) So my bag, before anything is put into it, is heavy. And then there is always the problem of my packing going from militant on the day I leave for vacation to sloppy on the day that I pack for home. I had to have my nephew, Tim, sit on the bag to zip it shut. He looked at me and said with characteristic dryness, “Sheesh, Aunt Jen. Good thing you packed four pairs of shoes with you since you walked around barefoot all weekend. That was useful.” Indeed.

So I had quite a bit to negotiate once I got to the airport, what with a sweater, my purse, my computer bag and then the kitchen sink I was rolling along with me. I was hoping that I either would suddenly possess Herculean strength when lifting it into the overhead bin or I could bat my eyelashes at some kind man who would lift it up there for me. I was even willing to show cleavage if it would help! I’m kind.

But first! The security line! We all know how security is now something of a mad, sweat-inducing, deodorant-pressing situation. Between taking off one’s shoes, showing ID, getting liquids, computers and anything metal out and off, it’s a dash to the other side where you just hope you don’t hear the words, “Can you take your bag and follow me?” on the back end of the detectors.

The security line was LONG this week. I stood at the end of it by myself for a while and then felt someone come in behind me. “Felt” because he stood right up against my back. I looked around to see if someone was pushing forward, you know to say, “Back off, bishes!” but there was just this man standing RIGHT behind me without anyone behind him necessitating such an intrusion into my personal space. I looked up at him, way up, and he just looked indifferently over my head all the while taking these creepy, long breaths through his nose. He could have rested his chin on my skull from his close proximity and I thought, “What’s with the sniffing? Is he sick? Why is he all up in my personal space? What if he has some weird plague? If he does and infects me, I want the hard stuff, whatever they have in the locked up cabinets at the CDC storage facility. I want the stuff the government will hand out after the zombies give us deadly drug-resistant zombie STDs. Why did we have sex with the zombies in the first place? Bad move, that.” So I moved forward.

So did he.

We continued on like this for some distance, me shifting forward worrying about potential bacteria that was raining down on my head, him following close behind, his chest bumping into the my back. So I took a new tactic and moved to the side and shoved my suitcase into his shins. He looked down from on high with an impenetrable gaze and stayed where he was. I had room for about three feet until the rather portly woman in front of me backed up suddenly, knocking me back into the guy who didn’t move as I bounced off of his torso and again into the woman. It was like a very bad game of bumper cars. At least she offered a softer landing.

I bobbed between the two of them for the last few feet until it was my turn to throw all of my belongings into the various bins and make my way through. Problem being that I was not only sandwiched between these two spatially challenged individuals but also backed up against a wall partition which made it impossible to negotiate my computer bag, purse, behemoth roller bag AND remove my shoes. I looked up at the disease-breathing giant and said, “Excuse me, could you back OFF for a second???” He continued to look somewhere over my head and off into the distance, completely unaware of my existence.

So I did the next best thing. I turned to the side and started to take off my shoes, which meant that I had to stand directly on his right foot. I hate to admit it, but I sort of ground my heel into him for a moment, just to get the point across that PERHAPS HE COULD MOVE. Startled, he looked down at me and said, “OW!” to which I replied, “Well, if you would BACK UP I wouldn’t have to maim you in order to take my shoes off.” He just looked at me blankly and then said, “Sorry. I didn’t see you.”

SERIOUSLY? I was wearing heels, which puts me at a height of 6 feet. While he still towered over me at around 6’4, I didn’t put on my invisible suit that morning so I wasn’t sure whether he was visually impaired or just a douchebag. I rolled my eyes and went back to the task at hand.

I got through security without issue and was on the other end gathering my belongings at the end of the belt, putting my heels back on and getting my computer, et al, sorted. He came through and was doing the same next to me. I caught him giving me a sideways glance as I put my liquids back into my bag and zipped up. I could still see him staring out of my peripheral vision and finally turned to him and said, “WHAT?” He replied with this gem, “Just so you know, your perfume smells amazing. Do you have time for coffee before your flight?”

Sweet GOD. Definitely just a douchebag.