Monday, May 10, 2010

I've Got (Excess) Baggage


"Can't you drive any faster?!"

My husband and I had rushed home from our respective workplaces only to rush to the “further-away-but-significantly-cheaper” airport to make our “ridiculously-late-but-significantly-cheaper” red-eye flight, which we’d booked in a moment I can only attribute to sheer stupidity. What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I was exhausted, frustrated and wearing 5 inch platform wedge shoes which, although devastatingly cute, were clearly un-airport friendly and I’d put on in a moment I can only attribute to sheer stupidity. What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Not that we could relax when we arrived to our destination or anything. While it had been a busy week, an even busier weekend awaited us…one complete with its own itinerary; One which was apt to entail more than its fair share of feigning interest in perfect strangers, being utterly selfless and politely rebuffing drunken advances from wedding-goers both overeager and underage.

I excel at none of these.

So when it was time to check our luggage and it was 51 pounds, exactly one pound over, it was the proverbial suitcase that broke the TSA agent’s back.

“You’re going to have to take something out or pay an extra fee,” I was informed.

“You know what?” I said cocking my head at the agent.

This is a rhetorical question I begin all my tantrums with. As the speaker, I neither expect nor do I care if the target of my rage “knows what”.

My husband, however, does know what. And he knows that when I ask someone else if he or she knows what, it almost always means trouble. He attempted to run interference, but by then it was too late. I’d already begun my anti-luggage weight limit verbal manifesto.

“You know what? I weigh 91 pounds. I weigh less than everyone on this damn plane. And you know what else? I bet me and my luggage combined still weigh less than everyone on this plane. So you know what? Screw your stupid weight limits. If I want to have an extra pound in my damn suitcase, that’s my damn prerogative.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to take something out of your bag or pay an extra fee.”

Guess I told her.

My husband had already begun removing something from our suitcase; another devastatingly cute but clearly un-airport baggage-friendly pair of wooden clogs that I didn’t really need but packed anyway in a moment I can only attribute to sheer stupidity. What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

As my husband stood in my wake apologizing profusely to the agent, I wheeled my now 50 pound bag to the X-ray machine.

Grace under pressure. Packing light. Making nice to airport workers who are just trying to do their jobs.

I excel at none of these.