How Not to Be the Worst Person at the Airport

From boarding crimes to bare feet, it’s Lord of the Flies but with neck pillows.

I’m eighteen, headed to LAX for Thanksgiving break, Ariana Grande’s “Love Me Harder” blasting through my AirPods. And I’m high as a kite.

To be fair, I thought the edibles at the bottom of my purse were expired, so sue me for having three times the recommended serving size! Do labels mean nothing anymore?

Unfortunately, I had (and still have) the lethal combination of time blindness and the general audacity. I thought I’d given myself just enough time to make the flight. Then I got high. Then, at the check-in counter, I realized I didn’t have my ID.

The airline agent looked at me as if it were offensive that we were even breathing the same air. I mean, it kind of was. I was rambling about how I must have left my ID at Taco Bell the night before. But why would I do that? You don’t need an ID for tacos. And I definitely used my fake to get into the bar—

I stopped myself. Not the appropriate overshare at this exact moment in time. The agent asked me to step aside so an officer could escort me through TSA.

I stared out at the airport, soaking in my final moments of freedom after I’d surely be arrested for public intoxication. Everyone seemed to be in the trenches: rowdy families, chaotic bridal parties, couples fighting over who made them late.

It dawned on me that airports were just Vegas casinos. Time was an illusion and people were free to express their worst impulses. Both places were also hotbeds of Ambien and morning liquor.

Ugh, I was going to miss this in prison.

A man suddenly appeared like the Grim Reaper in a hideous blue vest. “MA’AM!” he yelled, presumably for the tenth time. “I’m here to escort you through TSA.”

First came a verbal questionnaire. Then they would thoroughly search my bags. I handed my purse to the TSA man, who smiled deviously, warning me that he’d leave no crevice unchecked. Okay freak.

A woman administered a pop quiz that was both random and personal. Like whether my parents had a pool in their backyard. Unfortunately, the THC was compounding at lightning speed, so I couldn’t even remember if I knew how to swim. On the bright side, apparently I had a fast metabolism.

I prayed to whatever God would answer the call and for once I wasn’t sent to voicemail. I passed.

My relief lasted roughly forty-five seconds before I spotted my fake ID peeking out of my half-zipped wallet. My purse was slung over TSA Man’s shoulder, my desert-themed Arizona ID taunting me with every step. We were about five people from the scanners when I realized this would be the most embarrassing way to go down.

Remember Nikki? She got arrested at LAX for trying to fly high with a fake. Loser.

I could NOT be a loser. I lived away in a big city. I was basically a hometown celebrity. And a stupid fake ID from Tucson (but really from China, mailed to me inside the stitching of a wallet) was not going to take me down.

I was going to need two things: flattery and a diversion. I searched for anything to latch onto. But all TSA Man gave were one-word responses to my inquiries. My hearing was succumbing to my pulse. My vision narrowing. “You have a great smile,” I blurted. His jaw hit the floor. So did mine. WTF WAS THAT?!

Flustered, I dropped my phone and it spattered across the floor, inches from him. There was my diversion. I smiled helplessly, hoping I would land more as a damsel than as a person who just awkwardly hit on airport personnel. Luckily, TSA Man knelt over to pick up my phone.

I leaned forward, trying to be stealthy despite my racing heart, and secured the ID just as he was about to stand up. We were headed for a collision. It was all over for me.

Then… a divine intervention.

TSA Man stayed kneeling. I traced his gaze to a traveler ducking under the ropes. A stickler for the rules, TSA Man scolded the cutter and sent them to the back of the line, giving me time to throw my fake ID in the trash can beside us.

When TSA Man finally handed me my phone, I laid it on thick, “I hate troublemakers.” He nodded. He did too.

I passed through the scanners and finally made it to my gate, free to board and enjoy my edible. No surprise, I was one of the last people on the plane.

What did surprise me was the row of smiling nuns who greeted me as if they knew something I didn’t. Maybe there was a God after all?

Or maybe I was just high.

Ten years later, I’m still fundamentally a chaotic traveler. Partly because I don’t want to spend one extra second in an airport than I have to, partly because I have no real concept of how long it takes to get anywhere. I ride on blind faith and a good attitude. Even if I’m a frequent crier.

At my luckiest: I’ve had a plane held for me in Peru and a gate reopened at Burbank. At my worst: I’ve suffered two medical crises and nearly missed a flight while literally sitting at the gate.

I am a neurotic traveler’s worst nightmare.

The neurotic arrives at the airport before they’ve even been assigned a gate. They check the passport drawer every night before a trip “just to make sure.” They avoid checking bags whenever humanly possible, pack their own snacks, and genuinely enjoy the lounge.

Naturally, the chaotic and the neurotic always end up married.

Which actually restores the balance of an otherwise lawless land. While one spirals over a delayed flight, the other quietly apologizes to the gate agent. And somehow it always ends in an upgrade.

Airports create a temporary society where almost no one knows you or will see you again. They’re a bizarre litmus test of character, revealing who you are when you’re late, hungry, heartbroken. Let’s be honest, we’ve all been down bad in transit.

So I’ve made an Airport Guide to keep us from descending into total anarchy. Or becoming the subject of another viral TikTok.

How Not to Be the Worst Person at the Airport:

1. If you’re TSA, stop yelling at me! This entire process is like Whac-A-Mole. Especially when I have to maneuver around people who are somehow still confused about the liquid limit 20 years later. Also, can everyone be civilized and put their bins away??

2. Good customer service requires both sides to act right. I once arrived at a wedding weekend in Rome with no clothes to my name and an hour to find an outfit after the airline lost my bag. Luckily, a Canadian customer service angel named Cheryl handled my case. We struck up a quick friendship, chatting once a day while she tried to locate my suitcase. I gave her hot wedding gossip and she regaled me with stories of her motorcycle trip through Italy. What did Cheryl deliver? $500 a day in reimbursement and free therapy.

3. Ribs for breakfast are obviously outrageous. Morning liquor is just brunch. And bringing fish on a flight should result in a lifetime ban.

4. Toes on a plane are arguably worse than snakes. I don’t care if you’re flying straight into the lobby of the Four Seasons Anguilla. If you are allergic to sneakers, you can wear slides with socks. And never, ever walk barefoot. The fact that I even have to say this is insane, but here we are.

5. Respect the rules of your seat. I’m a self-aware aisle seater. I’m claustrophobic and very well hydrated. I know that also means getting up when others want to use the restroom. But I once set up my entire meal (and 3 beverages!) on my tray during dinner service, and it was at that exact moment the lady in the window seat asked to use the restroom. Was this her first day on Earth? Could she not have waited ten minutes for me to scarf down my cheap wine and stale couscous? Could I even say no? The kind teen in the middle seat helped carry my items because it was physically impossible for me to do so solo. And of course, the wine spilled all over him. Which leads me to…

6. If you’re in a middle seat, I’m sorry your life sucks. You can have the armrests, but don’t make your legs my problem. And don’t speak to me. Unless you’re my soulmate. But then why would you be in a middle seat?

7. The Deplaning Hoverer. Coach is already a battlefield. And worst of all is trying to exit said battlefield with a heathen breathing down your neck. If you have back problems or a tight connection… fine. To the rest of you, what is your end goal here? Deplaning is a single file situation. So if I am still sitting and you are three rows behind me, why on God’s green earth are you standing? Furthermore, if you are a man looming over me, I’m going to assume you’d also push me off the escape boat of the Titanic. With that said, if it’s your turn, MOVE!

8. The Baggage Claim Hoverer. Just take a step back and breathe. If you see your bag, people will make space for you. Rest assured, no one wants your duct-taped fuchsia Samsonite. And unless you have a duct-taped fuchsia Samsonite, you better check that bag tag.

9. Seat grabbers. If the only way you can stand is to aggressively yank my seat back, maybe it’s time to consider your local Pilates studio. Yoga is great too.

10. In general, everyone needs to step up. We used to be a country. If I’m struggling with the overhead bin, offer a hand. If my bag’s two pounds overweight, let it go. If the plane’s delayed, don’t breadcrumb me with fake departure times like a toxic ex. And if I ever end up on your TikTok, I will sue.

[A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR]:

I wish I could say things have gotten smoother since edible-gate, but sadly I hit rock bottom at the Nice airport this past summer. I was on my way back from a wedding (shocker) and running on pure fumes. Alone with three pieces of luggage, I was heading up an escalator when my suitcase toppled onto me, knocking me into my carry-on, sending my duffel flying, and tripping me again. Thus began my never-ending descent on an ascending escalator while being pummeled by all of my baggage. If that isn’t a metaphor.

The airport stopped the escalator, and I stood up to a sea of concerned faces. I insisted I was fine despite my crimson face and rapidly swelling foot. The medics examined me and determined I’d need to be wheeled to my gate.

They dropped me off 45 minutes early and told me to stay put until someone could transport me onto the flight. I wanted to limp to a café but then I considered the optics… So I clumsily wheeled myself over and immediately got stuck between two tables. Then I felt a drip. And another. I looked up. There was a leak. Perfect.

The man behind the counter felt so bad he wheeled me around to pick out my food, then safely delivered me back to my gate.

At Heathrow, I was handed off to a wheelchair attendant half my size. I felt terrible about my dead weight, but she told me I was light. So I obviously loved her.

By Newark, I had fully surrendered to the system. My next attendant belted along to whatever was blasting through his AirPods and whipped me around like we were in GTA as I clung on for dear life.

By the time I collapsed into my Uber, I was somewhere between irony and agony, laughing through my tears. My driver looked at me in the rearview mirror and threw me a bone, “You have a nice smile.”

:)