Of Airports and Assholes

We have arrived safely in Land of Tara and the Pissing Calvin. Of humidity so thick you start to sweat before finishing toweling off from a shower.

There is a woman in Seattle somewhere who has been scarred for life.

And rightly so.

Our paths crossed at the DC airport, and she will think twice about how she conducts herself in public and around small children.

I am sure she is a perfectly nice woman. Checking in at a crowded airport kiosk is difficult under the best of circumstances.

Knock your tower of luggage on top of me? Fine. No biggie. It happens. Let's get on with our lives and finish this hellish check-in process.

Knock your tower of luggage over a second time? This time on top of my kid in his stroller? Not. Fucking. Cool.

You got it. This woman's gigantic suitcase fell on LittleMan. Actually, it was the pulled-out metal handle that slammed into this left thigh and pinned him against the seat whilst he screamed bloody murder.

I wanted to beat the shit out of her. If nothing else demand her name and address in the event she had broken his damned femur so I could send her the bill.

Instead, after the initial shouting of Oh My GOD!!! I kept trying to soothe him, while looking for LittleBird's reservation which was not showing, while the ticket agent got snarky with me for not having my ID at the ready.

In the best interest of my family (which meant not getting arrested for beating down LuggageDropper or jumping over the kiosk and strangling SnarkyTicket Agent), I got my shit done and we got out of there.

All I could think of was thank the heavens this woman was headed for Seattle. Having to stare at the back of her head on my flight would have been horrible.

She was behind us in security. I saw her at the food court. I tried not to give her the continuous Murder Death Kill look, but she knew I was looking at her. I know she could feel it.

Board plane. Get LittleMan adjusted while LittleBird sits somewhere else with Grampa. I look up.

There she is.

On my flight.

Our eyes meet.

I have to give her credit. She could have looked the other way and continued on past.

Instead, she asked if he was going to be okay. I patted his leg and told her I hoped so.

She said that she really, really was sorry.

I told her I appreciated her saying so.

In English we tend to say It's okay after someone apologizes.

It wasn't okay. Not even near okay.

I respect her for looking me in the face and apologizing. I do appreciate her having said it.

I wonder what her version of the story was when she got to her destination.

I would put money on the fact that the next time she goes to the airport she will have better control of her luggage, a tighter rein on her husband, and a sharper eye on the stroller next to her.