Chapter 7: Flight

I'm terrified, plain and simple. It's an irrational fear, but a fear just the same, and it ravages me any time I enter an airport. It never fails: every time I fly, something always happens. My friends think I have adventures. I think it's hell-some of which I bring on myself, some out of my control.

I'm embarking on my latest "adventure," driving to the Greenville Spartanburg Airport. My hands are clammy. Mentally, I run down a list of items I need to bring with me. Surely I've forgotten something. The closer I get, the heavier my breathing becomes, the more the paranoia takes hold. Exiting from the freeway, I take the long road, following the signs to long-term parking.

Eventually, I'm at the security checkpoint. There must be two hundred people in line. The crowd heightens my anxiety, but I do my best to get through the line without losing my shit. People bump into me, and the TSA agent repeats the same instructions over and over again in a monotonous tone.

I finally reach the conveyor where I take my backpack off, pull out my laptop, put it in its own tub, and place my backpack in another. I slip my shoes off to add them to their own plastic keeper along with my jacket, and then my carryon suitcase at the end of that. The carryon could have easily been checked to avoid the responsibility of transporting it through the airport, but I had to save my company twenty-five dollars by bringing it with me.

The guy behind me has been huffing and blowing since we passed the agent checking boarding passes, obviously irritated, but hell, I can't make the lady scan any faster, and they keep telling people not to leave their stuff until it has all disappeared on the conveyor...so there I stand, waiting. And waiting.

In the meantime, Mr. Impatient finally loses his shit yelling, "Jesus Christ, lady, you're holding up the whole goddamn line. Get out of the fucking way. I'm gonna miss my damn flight if you don't fucking move."

Without time to do anything more than gape at him, there are four TSA agents flanking him, edging me out of the way. They swoop in on his ass in a skinny minute and kindly escort him out of the line and away from the public.

Standing stock still, I just watch the scene go down, in amazement, when the guy who was behind Mr. Impatient says, "My guess is he's definitely going to miss his flight now." He gives me a warm smile then points at the conveyor that's moving once again.

On the other side of that little ordeal, I'm on the verge of a total meltdown, topped with a helping of panic attack: too many people, Mr. Impatient, coupled with my general fear of flying.

I'm hanging onto the edge of sanity by my fingertips by the time I find myself sitting at the gate. While waiting for boarding to begin, I text my bestie, Malloree.

Malloree: Mila, breathe! For the love of God. Focus on breathing in and out, slowly.

Me: I'm trying. You yelling at me is not helping.

Malloree: Oh for fucks sake. Isn't there some hot guy there to drool over instead of freaking out about the plane crashing?

Me: Fuck you :)

I love her but this shit is not helping. She manages to change the subject to her latest conquest before telling me she can't wait to hear how my latest travel faux pas goes. And it will be a disaster.

Malloree: When does your flight leave? Weren't you supposed to be gone at like four?

Me: Shit. It WAS.

My flight was scheduled to leave at 4:10pm and it's now two minutes after that. With a forty-five-minute layover between flights, every minute that ticks by is one less I will have in Charlotte to make my connecting flight. The panic starts to rise again as I realize I may not make my next plane.

The lady at the gate finally calls to start boarding and herds us in like cattle. I don't think I've ever seen anything move so quickly. Luckily for me, it gives me little time to focus on my paranoia, and before I know it, we're airborne.

I'm in the last row on the aisle, firmly seated next to a stewardess sitting in a jump seat pulled out of the wall, effectively blocking the bathroom during take off and landing. With no room to move, preparing for landing, a woman flags the stewardess down, begging her to make an announcement to allow people to exit the plane who are in danger of missing their flights. The stewardess obliges the request and rolls her eyes as she hangs up the intercom phone.

I look over at her. "That was really nice of you."

"Completely pointless. No one cares people will miss their flights, they just want off the plane."

Looking at my watch as we touch down, I realize I have very little time to make my connection and pray I don't have far to go when I get off the plane. I look back over to her and ask, "Do you have any way to tell me what gate my next flight leaves from?"

"Sure. Where are you going?" She pulls out her phone and opens an app with the information I'm seeking.

"Houston, IAH."

Without looking it up, she replies, "A-11."

"Crap. How long have you been doing this?"

"I live in Houston so I fly those flights regularly."

I resign myself to the fact I'm not going to make it; there's no way I can change concourses in the amount of time I have. "Do you know when the next flight leaves? In case I miss this one."

"6:30pm and 8:25pm, but, sweetheart, those flights are all full." She shows me the display on her phone. There's a standby list on both flights. I have no option. I have to make this flight.

When we finally stop at the gate, I have twenty minutes to get off the plane, get my bag they made me put under the plane (again, because I was too frugal to pay the twenty-five-dollar bag fee), and get on the next plane. When I get my bag, I have twelve minutes to make it to my next flight...four concourses away with no tram.

With my backpack on, pulling my suitcase behind me, I take off in a run. My thighs burn, my knees cry out in pain, my lungs are on fire and barely producing oxygen.

One thing I've always loved about the Charlotte airport is the white, wooden rocking chairs lining the concourses for people to hang out in. A piece of Southern charm, but today, not so much. I curse out every asshat sitting in one of those damn chairs surrounded by people idly chit chatting who won't get the hell out of my way. I just about trip over my bag behind me multiple times as I enter Concourse A.

The moment I step onto the carpet from the tile, signaling I'm nearing my destination, I hear the call for the final boarding of my flight. I still have eleven gates to go. I keep running, silently praying I'll make it. As I see the gate in sight, they're closing the door.

"Please wait," I wail as loud as my dry throat will let me. The girl at the gate hears my plea and stops right as I topple over her, almost knocking her to the ground. She's nice about it, giving me a look of pity before scanning my boarding pass and motioning me down the hall.

I clamber down the aisle of the plane-this one much larger than the one I just vacated-covered in sweat, face beet red, and panting like I just ran a marathon. I do the walk of shame to row twenty-one as people make disparaging remarks about my disheveled look and my inability to plan more time between flights.

By the way, I did not book this flight. It was booked for me.

I'm embarrassed, thirsty, and need to change clothes, but relieved I made it. That is, until I find my seat, put my suitcase in the overhead compartment, and plop my tired ass down next to the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life.