I was really worried about returning to New York. After spending 2 weeks in California, in 70-degree weather, I had begun to seriously doubt my commitment to Brooklyn. So after kissing my mom on the cheek at the car, late for my flight, I trudged into line to check my one suitcase.

There’s a certain breed of frustration only indigenous to airports. It’s a similar species to freeway traffic, but the special trait is the constant nagging in your mind that if you miss this flight, you’re paying out the ass for it. So every inch gained in line must be carefully measured against how long it took the herd in front of you to move forward, a ratio of minutes to inches is then calculated and approximated so that you can figure how long until you’re at the gate, boarding the plane.

But then some asshole stuffs his codpiece with TNT a few days before and everyone loses their minds.

Thus airport security was especially cautious, and my ratio especially high on the one day that I woke up late and had to rush through an airport. During my entire trip to California I flew 3 times during the Christmas season. Each time I arrived at the airport at least an hour and a half early only to breeze through the airport in 15 minutes and sit around in the airport with nothing to do. But the ONE time I cut it close, everyone decides to fly.

At the bag check counter, I weigh my suitcase. 67 pounds. “That’ll be $50 dollars please,” the disgustingly upbeat girl at the counter says. Doesn’t she know how low her line’s ratio was?! It suddenly occurs to me that I have the Calvin & Hobbes complete collection occupying space in my suitcase and it is a heavy beast. I picked it up in California, which explained my shock since I didn’t have to pay fifty bones on my way out. I tell her. “Oh! Well, do you have another suitcase you can put the book in? Then you won’t have to pay anything!”

“Who made up that moronic rule? So you’re saying that I can occupy the same amount of weight on your precious plane, but if I opt to take up more space as well, you’ll reward me by not charging me extra? This is why airlines are hemorrhaging money: your guys at the top don’t think things through.”

All cheeriness evacuates her face. “Look pay or don’t, you’re holding up the line.” Suddenly I am the guy skyrocketing the ratio. Fine, I’m carrying the book. In front of at least thirty annoyed customers I open my suitcase, which is spring-loaded with dirty laundry, and fish out this 20 pound behemoth. Re-weigh the suitcase, 47 pounds. I’m out.

Now I’m carrying this brick under my arm, awkwardly attempting to balance it against my hip, and recalculating the ratio for airport security. It becomes very clear half-way through the line that I will be missing my flight.

They took my soap. TSA took my soap because it was over the 3 ounce liquid limit. Except that it wasn’t. It was a 6 oz. bottle clearly less than half full. My secret suspicion was that the agent was alarmed by its lime green color. It looked like the green shit that Nick Cage has to save us from at the end of The Rock, and by this stage in the game I wanted a 12-inch needle like Nick had at the end of the movie so I could jam it in her chest. Or mine. Just take the soap, I don’t care anymore.

Defeated, I pass through airport security with no further incident. I am a threat to no one but myself at this point. It’s 10:23 and my flight leaves at 10:25. Out of some sort of masochistic need to punish myself for being late, I decide to run through the airport. Perhaps the flight is delayed? I’m rationalizing, the book under my arm is playing my ribs like a washboard, and I’m running. It should surprise no one at this point that my gate is number 13, the LAST GATE IN THE AIRPORT. It’s closed, I’m toast.

I fantasize about throwing the book through the glass, leaping through its shattered remains onto the tarmac and stowing away on the plane’s landing gear. I saw it in a movie once, big deal. Instead, I inquire when the next flight is. There’s one. In two hours. Sold out, I’m on standby, and #5 in line. There’s no way this is happening.

So to recap, I could’ve either woken up 10 minutes earlier and saved $150 and a day, or, I could’ve opted not to get out of bed with the girl I found myself next to in the morning. Why I picked curtain number 3, we’ll never know.

So to rescue the day, I called my surrogate sister for a pickup. Turns out she’s running errands with her parents and 4-year-old twins today. At least it’s better than sitting around an airport. I book my flight for tomorrow (same time and place!) and trod back out to the entrance to the terminal. Hopefully this day will get better…