LIVE FROM ORD, ITS HOLIDAYYYY HELLLL

Does anything feel more Holiday-coded than getting stuck in an airport the week before Christmas? I ask out of desperation. This (right now, typing to you from Denver International, home of the Dreaded Blue Horse) is my first time being holiday-airport-stranded.

To be clear, not my first foray into airport limbo. No, no, no, I’m no layover gone wrong virgin. Wandering the harshly lit halls of weird airport food courts and bumping shoulders with stressed business dads yelling, “I’m trying my BEST to get home HONEY, I’m not the PILOT I can’t drive the PLANE now CAN I?” into their Apple Watches is just another Manic Monday for me.

The building blocks of my Scorpio-laden resilience are akin to a Trojan Horse. Moving slowly and nervously into battle, I am constructed of being both an eldest daughter and a middle child (half siblings), countless ALANON meetings, the curse of being attracted to straight men, and owning a feret in middle school. But lurking deep inside, so silent and so still, is the inevitable experience of being consistently and unavoidably stuck in airports. The witch who wandered into my open windowed Georgia home to curse my cradle wasn’t seeking out a lifetime of unrequited love (but perhaps she doubled down??), eternal sleep, or an ill parent (but perhaps she trippled down???). It was thwarted travel. She traced my round face with her forest green claw and whispered, “You will never get to where you’re going.”

I am Tom Hanks in The Terminal, but also completely different. I am not a middle-aged Eastern European man; my home country has not erupted in a coup (not yet, at least). I did not travel to New York to obtain an autograph from the late Benny Golson, and Stanley Tucci does not have it out for me (not yet, at least). BUT, every time the switchboard flashes DELAYED, I make the airport my home, and more so, the airport makes a home out of me. :)

The likelihood of me dying in this airport today and my body being lost in baggage claim is extremely high.

I’ve had two airport margaritas that cost 236 dollars each, and I’m waxing extreme over here. If you can’t tell, my mental state is one a doctor would describe as “code red” and I would describe as “¯\_(ツ)_/¯” The airport calls to me like a blackhole and I fling my arms wide open. Suck me in and spit me out, space daddy! I may not get to where I’m going, but I’m sure as hell going somewhere.

Much like anything painful- grief, an uncomfortable stretch- sitting in it long enough enables you to break through the brain’s protective barrier of “I can’t take this anymore!” to a transcendent “I can handle anything”. You realize how little control you have over the sources outside of yourself. How they unfold is none of your business, really. Your only job is to decide what you notice, how you respond, what you learn, and how you move forward.

Earlier today, when we were idling on the tarmac for two hours, the baby in front of us began to cry. The parents’ panic was palpable. The baby’s teary face bobbed in and out of sight as her dad raised her up and down. The “weeees” he was trying to elicit only brought more tears. Everyone was *fucking* annoyed, including me. Empathy is the first thing to go when delayed. An elderly woman three rows ahead turned her head around, pretending to look for the source of the noise even though she, and everyone in the main cabin, knew where it was. Through the slit in the seats, I saw the mother and father exchange a worried look. I felt for them, the same way I know anyone on this plane can feel for them. We’ve all been in each other's shoes.

On the third round of Up and Down, I started playing peekaboo with the baby. Honestly, we both needed a distraction. Her face froze mid-scream, and she cocked her head at me before disappearing behind the seat. Rising back up, she was looking for me, so I covered my face with my hands and said “boo!” She screamed and giggled. The dad caught on to our game and raised her in the middle seat so she could get a better view of me. We went on like this for 5 minutes, giggling in our seats. The man next to me joined in, and soon other people around us were either making silly faces at the baby or laughing at someone making a silly face at the baby. When we finally got up to debaord my seatmate held the mom’s baby bag while she pulled down their carry-on, and the two people in front of us let the family off before them so they could get off for a diaper change. This brief moment of human connection gave a much-needed pause in the middle of growing tension and tempers. And while we did all pile off the plane to have to pile on again, then off, then wait, line up, sit down, line up, sit down, line up stay up, board again and idle my seatmate later did smile at me from across the foodcourt where we were both using our complimentary food vouchers and mouthed “safe travels”. I nodded and mouthed “good luck” and really meant “I hope you get to where you’re going,” which always means “I hope you get to be with the people you want to be with.”

Depending on the airport, there can be pockets where you, and get this, don’t feel like you’re in an airport. You’re somewhere else. Not home, obviously. Not even a place that feels like home. More so…you’re at the one nice restaurant attached to the mall, an elevated Cheesecake Factory, something with a tinge of warmth and a margarita that doesn’t taste like electric piss.

I’ll tell you who can’t do it- The Tampa Airport. No matter where you go, it is blaringly apparent that you are IN AN AIRPORT and specifially in an airport where PEOPLE WILL BE DRINKING AT 8 AM and even more specifially ONE OF THEM WILL CALL THE FUN FRUITY DRINK HIS FRIEND GETS “GAY” and he will, no matter what, SPEND THE REST OF THE TIME BEFORE HIS FLIGHT BOARDS ENVYING HIS FRIENDS FUN FRUITY DRINK while hating his flat tepid pilsner and MAKING IT EVERYONE ELSE’S PROBLEM.

One time after visiting my dad, I sat across from a man who woke himself up by burp coughing. Like rising from the dead, he looked at me and said “huh!?”, which is a perfect response to waking up in TPA.

I found afformentioned nice warm spot in Denver International. Which is where I write to you now. Who knows how long I’ll be here. The chatbot I harassed then trauma-bonded with says my new flight takes off at 7:45 tonight, but we all know that’s just fodder to keep me from tearing all my clothes off and pulling down the Christmas decorations.

So for now, I will sip my actually drinkable margarita (#2) and crunch on the Asian chicken salad my server, Christopher, said I had to order. I’ll continue to watch him charm other tables, genuinely making everyone's stressful day a little better. And I’ll continue to think what a skill that is- to soften everyone’s edges. And I’ll be a little….a little glad that I am here.

If I do perish in this airport, home of the terrible and relentless Blue Horse, keep this as my last will and testament. And my death, whether it be from being sucked into the walkable sidewalks, taken out by the secret assassin who’s been trailing me for years, or my bones turn to dust from circling the food court looking for a salad that won’t give me norovirus, is not a tragedy. Know that just like life, there was good, there was bad, and eventually I got to where I was going. Witch curse be damned.

Happy Holidays, you sweet freaks!!!!

Layne