This year I opted not to travel for Thanksgiving.  Nothing gives me agita worse than treading on a moving walkway in the airport behind a three-year-old whose parents have given her a miniature suitcase, which seems to serve the sole purpose of adding drag to an already impossibly slow-moving human being.

In the past I braved the airport crowds – specifically Thanksgiving 2003.  I was a senior in college,  who’d been out late with friends the night before, despite having a 6AM flight the following morning.  Teetering on a couple hours of sleep, I threw myself, a giant suitcase, and a wad of cash into the back of a taxi.  I limped through check in and crashed when I arrived at the gate.

When I found my gate, I picked the closest seat next the boarding door, so that I would hear the announcements. Unfortunately, my desperate need for sleep, lack of coffee, and being wrapped in a full-length sleeping bag coat was the perfect recipe to send me into a deep slumber.  And when I sleep, I sleep like the dead.

/// time passes, so so much time passes ///

The next thing I knew, a security guard was shaking my lapels.  I blinked into his stare and he yelled my name and asked if I could confirm my identity.  Startled, I confirmed with a nod and wide eyes.  He yelled to the check in desk, “I found her!”  I asked what happened and he told me that everyone boarded the plane, but the flight was grounded because a passenger (me) checked a bag and then did not get on the flight.  They were calling my name over the intercom for a half hour, while I napped next to the gate agent.

When I got on the plane, my captive audience shot daggers and disapproving head shakes.  Then, one wise ass at the back of the plane started a slow clap just for me.  Take a bow.