It was a Monday last December. I flew to Denver, spent six hours at the airport, and flew back to San Diego. A true “welcome back!” to flying post-COVID.

I woke up at my apartment in San Diego at 4:45 a.m. to leave for the airport at 5:15 a.m. in my pre-scheduled Uber. After arriving at the airport at 5:35, I waited in the security line for about 40 minutes, having enough time to fill up my water and hit the restroom—not quite enough time to grab a coffee. 

I arrived in Denver late, but 20 minutes before my connecting flight was scheduled to board, which was plenty of time (I knew I could make it to the gate in 10). By the time we deplaned, I made it with five minutes to spare. Five turned into ten, then fifteen… finally an announcement of a short delay. I sprawled out on the floor up against the wall to stretch my hamstrings.

Which I’ve noted over the years is something not many people at the airport do. 

In a quick stretch’s time, they started boarding. This was a good sign. 

Once we boarded, a flight attendant greeted me by saying that the overhead space was nearly full and to throw my bag in the first open spot I saw as everything in the back was taken. I abruptly halted at three open spots along the way, to which my bag fit in lucky number none. Though, I didn’t come to that conclusion lightly; I tried vertically (as repeatedly recommended), horizontally (as redundantly discouraged but seemingly worth a shot), and even tried a somewhat aggressive shove (just to be sure it wouldn’t shimmy on in with some additional force). To no avail.

I’m sure this served as somewhat entertaining to both the crowd of seated patrons and those waiting in the long line behind me. Clearly somewhat flustered (but making light of it by wearing a smile that no one could see and releasing a bit of laughter), onward I went. 

I took my seat with my quite obviously overhead-sized carry-on sitting on my lap. I had heard the general announcement that those of us with bags but no overhead space should sit and wait for the aisle to clear before heading to the front to have them checked. 

I am not a fan of having my carry-on checked.  

I then heard abrupt, direct instruction from the back of the plane:

“Ma’am, come back here please. There’s no room for your bag.”

No shit. Why head to the back of the plane before having to head to the front? I’m in an aisle seat! Alright, back I go. I’m not one to argue in situations like this, much less in this environment… I’ve seen the news.

We congregated like masked sardines in between the adjacent pissers. The flight attendant received a message telling her the same thing we had heard when boarding and then again over the loudspeaker; come to the front once the aisle clears.

Like I thought, I could be sitting right now instead of blocking the bathrooms with four other poor souls.

“Okay, there are a couple overhead spots upfront for bags. You… yours should fit.”

She was looking at me!

“Great!”

I hauled to the front. They had made more room by shoving other people’s bags over to the extent I had not been comfortable doing. I found a spot, secured my bag, then immediately realized…  

I hadn’t the slightest idea where I had fucking put it. Rookie move, Moll, rookie move.

“Excuse me, was that number seven there, where we put my bag?”

Cue her irritated inflection: 

“Yes, right here at seven. Please head to the front, so everyone else can come up to check their bags.”

I went to the front of the plane where doors on both sides were open. 

“Please keep moving. We have more people and more bags.”

Well, I’m standing with my heels slightly over the precipice of where this door clearly ends. I think I’ll stop here.

A different flight attendant shouted over my shoulder across the edge where I overhung one foot as I gripped a first class seat to assure I didn’t fall out of the plane. This flight attendant was also not pleased. Unhappy enough to clearly not give a flying fuck (or an anticipatory flying fuck) that I was practically hanging out of the plane. Nonetheless, I looked at this exasperated man with compassion and a friendly grin:

“Always somethin’, huh?”

He shot back:

“You have no idea. It’s always this way with these people. Everyday it’s like where the hell are our meals?”

This man’s blood sugar was on the line! Now I could genuinely relate. You do not want to catch me in a bout of hunger without a known morsel in very close proximity.

He was pointing at the people who, well, I’m not quite sure who they are. I thought they were the folks who chuck the checked bags as hard and haphazardly as possible onto the conveyor belt loading into the plane. Apparently they do much, much more. His disagreement with the bag chucking, meal hoarding lady continued. 

It was something about the flight attendants’ meals and the pilots’ meals being in the back, but he didn’t seem convinced. He’d call back to verify, and if they weren’t there, she said she’d “throw some over” (albeit quite recklessly, I’m sure).

Well, I’m glad y’all are so organized over here. I’d really just like to not fall out of this plane, remember where my bag is, and make it to Detroit. 

It wasn’t even five minutes later that I was comfortably seated. Woohoo! Then, a moment of awkward silence as a flight attendant intended to make an announcement but hadn’t caught her words yet.

That poor mealless man probably went into hyperglycemic shock or is concussed from a frozen meal to the head, and we’re now delayed longer… 

“We’re going to have to run engine one for a test. This will take about five minutes.”

Ah yes, testing the primary engine a half hour after the plane’s scheduled departure time. Nothing gets past these folks.

Meh, be optimistic, Moll. Remember what Adam said about being grateful and bla bla. Maybe it’ll only be like fifteen minutes, and we’ll be smooth sailing! Maybe everything that I know to be likely after flying so often for work is actually not the way things usually go and is especially not compounded negatively by COVID. Be positive!

Sigh. 

Now, don’t get me wrong. I start my mornings with the Five Minute Journal (5MJ, coined by Tim Ferris), which starts with three things I’m grateful for. This is then followed by three longhand free written pages (coined “Morning Pages” by Julia Cameron). So, I wouldn’t say I’m ungrateful— I’d say I’m impatient, easily irritated, and emotionally reactive. Especially when I don’t have my morning time (which I have never given myself when the alarm clock rings at 4:45 a.m.), or when I’m hungry.

About another twenty minutes went by, and an announcement that the plane needed to be taken out of service. Turns out, engine one was no fucking good.

Yeah, that sounds more inline with my experience (but I’m grateful that we didn’t take off with a shit engine and crash).

The message went on to further say that the course of action from there was unclear.

Super!

They would try to fix the engine, which would take “quite a bit of time.” Please head to the podium after deplaning.

I pulled up flights on my phone as we all started lining up, but as we did, another announcement came, and this time from the podium. They couldn’t help us at that time but would attempt to fix the engine (that’s not disconcerting at all) for take off at 1 p.m. 

Would I even want to be on this plane?

The original departure time had been 10:50 a.m. I decided to head to get the coffee I missed earlier and power up my laptop to continue checking other flights and hopefully get started on some work I planned to do on the flight. 

Which I should have been two hours into at that point.

I watched the available seats on the 5 p.m. flight, in case the now 1 p.m. flight I was scheduled on was notoriously delayed again. More than one delay often means an eventual cancellation in my experience, so by a second delay, I’m switching flights or requesting a refund to move to another airline. And you probably should be too. 

Then, it happened: a text message stating another delay with a now 2 p.m. departure. 

Well, that’s it, next up is a cancellation. I better get my shit together.

I wasn’t able to switch to the 5 p.m. flight without speaking to someone at the airline, another bad sign. I powered down, went to the gate, and called my dad while I waited in line:

Me:

“Hey, I’m in Denver. Still. I know I’m supposed to be landing in Detroit in like an hour, but we’re on a second delay here…”

Old wise one:

“Shit. Next up will be…”

Me:

“Yeah… I’m working on getting on the 5 p.m. as we speak.”

Old wise one:

“Keep me updated.”

As we hung up, I checked out competing flights; nothing looked good. It was the 5 p.m. flight or bust. Then, I received a text: The flight was canceled, and I was now scheduled for a flight the next day. 

Fuck. 

The next day was when I was scheduled to start work. Mind you, scheduled to start work over two hours before the new flight’s departure time, without considering the two hour time difference between Denver and Detroit. 

Basically, I was scheduled to leave Denver four hours after I was supposed to start work at my destination from Denver. 

This, not unlike engine one, is what I like to call no fucking good.

I waited at our original gate until the announcement that we had all been rebooked. At this moment our destination was removed from the gate screen and the curmudgeon of a flight attendant left the podium. 

No fucking good.

With a little pep in my step (or what my partner would classify as agitation), I went to the nearest open United desk and was pleasant as pie as I greeted a few real sweet ladies who instructed me to head to the help desk. 

I was greeted at desk number three:

“Hello, how are you?”

“I’m doing well! I mean, considering…”

“Considering you’re at the airport? I hear ya…”

I was going to say, ‘Considering that my flight was canceled,’ but this person gets it; she has to work here. I wanted to reply with ‘Transferred from the DMV, did ya?’

“I was told to head to the help desk. Am I in the right place?”

“You are not…” 

Sigh.

“But you’re closer than where you started. Keep heading in this direction… It’s on the left where the tile meets the carpet.”

“Got it. Thanks so much!”

I peered around the corner as my feet met the carpet and…

No fucking good.

“There must be thirty people in this goddamn line!”

Deep breaths, Moll. Remember that you’re trying to be better at handling things like this. Fuck that. I’ve been up for 6 hours and am only two hours closer to Detroit than when I woke up! 

Wait in line.

Still waiting in line. 

Called my dad.

“Hi again…”

We discussed whether it was worth staying the night somewhere in Denver and arriving in Detroit the following day after the work day had wrapped up. Then work the following day til mid afternoon and fly out that night. 

After reviewing the options, we were both a bit flustered yet also indifferent about the options. He thought it might be best to head back to San Diego if I couldn’t get to Detroit that same night (I’m sure this was said out of compassion from having been in this situation time and time again himself). The decision was left up to me.

I text a buddy:

Oh yes, I didn’t mention that I had strep throat at this point. Adam had been out the entire week prior with strep, a sinus infection, and an inner ear infection. I somehow remained unscathed by this most of the week (surprising since we cohabitate). Until Thursday night, I remained unscathed, at which point I made the call for antibiotics on Friday.

The idea of just getting back home at this point sounded good.

Real fucking good.

I debated reaching out to my other close friend in the area, but I was next up in line. Let’s wait. Maybe I’ll get lucky and will be able to cancel tomorrow’s flight, get a refund, and snag the competing airline’s late night that would get me into Detroit just before midnight. 

Ugh. ‘Lucky.’ That flight doesn’t leave for another two hours and costs as much as my original roundtrip! 

What ensued next was by far the most frustrating portion of my day. I had what I can only describe as a miserable, brain sucking conversation with an incredibly soft spoken human. Unfortunately for both of us, she seemed to be as powerless as she was timid.

God, help her in this crowd.

I spent over thirty minutes standing in front of this desk while she either inquired with her manager on my requests or called other departments where she was put on hold for several minutes at a time. Meanwhile, there was a fussy old woman (I believe the kids are calling them Karens) being rude to staff a couple of windows down from me. 

None of us are pleased, lady, but kindness above all.  

I was exchanging looks with another woman who stood in between the nasty one and me. We were swapping eyerolls with expressions of disgust, as if to say “Pssshhh, some people.”

Not pretentious like a scoff, but empathetic and compassionate like hey, the person you’re talking to isn’t responsible for our canceled flight. In fact, they’re probably more upset to be dealing with you than you are about your damn flight. Yet, look at their grace!

This acted as a reminder. Grace. Yes, Molly, grace. 

I have a knack for a few things—grace is not one of them.  

My conversation with the reticent one ended with me scheduled on a flight back to San Diego that same night. Without a refund, voucher, or so much as an “I’m sorry.” 

It’s important to me to voice that this was not a reflection of my negotiation skills. This was a reflection of United Airlines. So, wherever you are while you read this, please take a moment to chastise United Airlines. 

Not unlike the flight attendant, my blood sugar was also now in danger. If from reading this essay you’ve gathered that I can be impatient and easily irritated, imagine adding famished to that tab. I had some snacks in my bag that I began cramming in my mouth.

There’s a quote about dancing like no one’s watching. I say eat like no one’s looking. Remember the last time you ate popcorn alone? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.

As I forced chunks of jerky into my mouth by the handful, I passed by a pub (you know the type, one of those soul crushing airport bars). I stopped in my tracks, took a few steps back, checked the time on my phone, and contemplated… for about five seconds. Which in my head sounded something like:

I have over an hour until my flight home boards. I haven’t consumed much apart from antibiotics and coffee today. Why not throw some tequila down the ole gullet! It has been a day.

There were a couple patrons lined up next to a “wait to be seated” sign. As I got in queue, I spotted some space at the bar, but no stool. 

Were these people waiting on a table? I can’t imagine we have to wait to be seated if we park it at the bar…

Just as I was peering over, a man at the bar looked at me, turned around to glance at an unused stool, and then looked back at me while using both arms to point out the open spot next to him. 

Fine. But don’t get any ideas, I thought, clearly noticing he wasn’t offering any seat maneuvers to the male patrons in line ahead of me. 

I was at the bar in a matter of seconds, ordered a tequila, and met two fellas who were also strangers to each other. If you haven’t spent much time in airport pubs, think of it like a few hours of Spring Break somewhere shitty. Somewhere you don’t want to be, but there’s still alcohol, so it could be worse. Like you’re supporting a friend who wants you to come with to visit a crush in… South Dakota, and be her wing lady. You arrive, you drink. Sometimes people share personal aspects of their lives as they know they’ll never see you again. Other times it’s boring small talk to fill the void, and more often than not, there’s some dude who’s trying to convince anyone with a pulse to go home with him. 

It always ends the same; at some point, you leave, never to see these people again. This environment had a bit of all three. A bit of painful small talk, then a few strangers sharing personal stories and exchanging banter while ordering rounds of drinks (which escalated into shots), and one man in particular who was a bit chummy. The fella in between us took a liking to my kind but direct words when the somewhat chummy one (unsurprisingly, the fella who had invited me over for a sit) inquired about getting my “digits.” He had left the bar a few minutes earlier and then came back to ask.

Sigh. 

All in all, it was a friendly, amusing time. Even after I received a text message from United immediately upon closing my tab:

No. Fucking. Good.

“Another tequila, please!”

Before I knew it, I was boarding my flight while devouring savory cashews by the handful. I took the window seat next to a woman with a little girl on her lap, who quite fortunately for both of us ended up on mine for most of the flight.

Finally, after having left from there twelve hours earlier, I arrived back at the San Diego airport… which felt real fucking good.