Evidence #89043214 proving United Airlines suckage

If you’ve read far enough on this blog, you would have discovered that United Airlines and I have a long-standing history of rubbing each other the wrong way. Every time I leave for a trip, I arrive at the airport with an open mind, saying to myself “THIS will be a good flight. I am going to a cool place, I will see astounding place, I will meet wonderful people, and I will be drunk 50% of the time wherever it is I’m going.”

That last part, well, it’s not true.

And every…blessed…time….United lets me down. And people tell me I’m too cynical and insecure. It’s because of major money making corporations like these that I am the way I am today. It’s because of corrupt oil companies that I think I’m going to fail every class I take, it’s because of Kraft that I believe everyone is judging me constantly, and it’s because of United I feel like everyone talks behind my back.

Anyhow…moving on from that digression…

My flight, which was supposed to leave at 8:45 PM, is now scheduled to leave at 11 PM, and I would be willing to bet money that it’s going to be delayed at least one more time before we actually take off.

This in itself did not bother me. I mean, great, hurray, my flight is delayed more than an hour, whatever, but it’s the PEOPLE, everyone THE PEOPLE WHO DROVE ME INSANE.

Digression 2: In which Adrianna Klara Gyorfi steals the osteoporosis pills of an old woman and uses said old lady as a luggage belt to hold multiple suitcase together

When I was standing in security for 45 minutes, I had ample time to observe everyone around me.

Behind me was the nameless OLD Russian couple who seemed to think they could Russianly cut in front of me and would impatiently Russianly prod me with Russian suitcases for me to move forward 2 inches.

It turned out they didn’t check any of their baggage in and they had to go back to check-in at the last minute. SUCKERS.

In front of me was the jolly German family with the ugly baby visiting the ebullient immigrant family in American, and took about 95 pictures while they were in the security line of their ebullient immigrant family waving from the exit. The jolly German family with the ugly baby, as opposed to the OLD Russian couple, did not seem to think it was necessary to move at all until there was enough space in between them and the people in front of them to accelerate a VW 1978 bug up to 90 MPH.

We got to a security belt, but I happened to be the first unlucky victim to be told that security belt was closed, and for me to “merge” with another line.

“Merging” for me signifies a give-and-take relationship, a cooperative relationship. You let me in when I signal, I will flash you a 100% genuine CA Listerined and Crest whitening stripped smile, I will wave to you, and we will both move on happy. Me, because you have let me in, you, because I have bestowed upon you the only gift a stranger could give you: a smile.

Unfortunately, standing 45 minutes doesn’t put people in a better mood. In fact, people turn into monsters when they are loaded down by luggage and they’re asked to wait for 45 minutes. I believe that horror movie script writers got their best material for movies while standing uncomfortably in lines for longs periods of time, I think serial killers got started on their rampages because they had to wait in lines at airports, and I think in part terrorists also only make their bombs because they are forced to wait for up to an hour in some stupid line at airports, and in that amount of time with nothing to do, you have enough time to construct a small-scale nuclear bomb or discover the cure for HIV, as far as I’m concerned.

So I tried “merging.” I tried merging like a goddamn professional (making eye contact, executing the standard “please let me in” moves), like I was born with the “merging” gene, and an old, crotchety woman puts her hands on her hips and tells me:

“Nuh-uh. YOU’RE not cutting. I’VE been waiting in line for half an hour.”

I might have let this slide by had the old woman been an old man. I have this thing in my head where all old men, if they’re mean to me, are really actually nice. But when a member of my own sex starts acting ungracefully and like authenticated bitches, my defense mechanisms automatically get switched on, and I just have the desire to prove them wrong, because I’M right, and well, didn’t your mother teach you better?

Just as a side note, I like old men better than old women.

“I’ve been waiting in line just as long as you,” says I, and I was gratified to hear a sort of “YEAH!” behind me, from the people who were also being forced to “merge.”

“YOU’RE NOT CUTTING IN FRONT OF ME!” says the woman again.

I start putting my stuff onto the table because frankly, I didn’t want to deal with the woman. I was asked to merge with other lines, and I damn well WAS going to merge whether the woman let me in or not.

After some more harping, the security guards come over to the woman’s wails and tearing of the hair behind me, telling me I wasn’t being “fair”, and the security man tells her “They have to merge.”

Then the husband of the witch starts in with “BUT THAT’S NOT FAIR,” and the security guard says “If you don’t like it, talk to my supervisor.”

And of COURSE, since the old man can’t resist proving the security man wrong, he asks for the supervisor.

So the supervisor, a tall, cowboyish sort of man, strolls over and says “You’ve been taking orders from your boss for 30 years now, right? Just let them MERGE.”

And that’s the story of how I came to be “merged.”

Digression 3: In which Adrianna Klara Gyorfi discovers that karma does exist.

Then I went to get a sandwich.

I waited for my sandwich for 20 minutes because the people never really actually got around to make my sandwich. Because I just imagined using an old woman as a pin cushion.

So before I started writing this entry, I read Rory Kelly’s blog, in which he recounts his top 10 life-changing books. I wanted to do this. Then I realized that the only books I could recall at the moment were the ones with shiny covers and pages.

In other words, lately, if I were to create my top ten life-changing books, it would include issues of Vogue, Cosmopolitan, and Self.

So now I have a mere hour to go before my plane theoretically takes off. I’m going to Bahston to see my sister arrayed in her graduation robe garbery, and then I’ll see if Joe Jerome and Oliver Ousterhout will make good on their promise to take me out.

I think it’s swell that my sister is graduating and I would here insert some sort of a long and insightful interlude about moving forward in the world, making it through 4 academically and emotionally challenging years in one piece, and golly-gee, my sister is nearly a grown-up now, but I’m not in any condition to make the aforementioned statements.

In fact, what I want to do most right now is to stretch out on these faux-leather seats and call it a day, because I know what I have to look forward to at the Boston airport is more rain and the very real possibility that my luggage won’t arrive.