To the lady behind me, I’m sorry.

I was flying high, figuratively and literally. I had just come off a wonderful weekend of delicious smells, shopping,  and Nutcracker sightings with my wife and daughter and I was feeling great. On top of that, I had also just returned from Hong Kong, Melbourne, and Minneapolis so my many miles finally allowed me to hit super god status with two airlines. 

When I cut in front of a lady this morning I honestly had no idea what i was doing.  The taxi dropped me at the perfect door. I took the super secret premier exec security check-in line and breezed through. Then in a move not to dissimilar from Jim Carey in Bruce Almighty, I shed my shoes, coats, and bag in one smooth stroke and glided through TSA’s detectors.  Only after I was staring down the tunnel of the X-ray machine waiting for my one bag did I catch a whisper.  “What was that? The nerve of some people. Oh, its ok.”  

I had cut off a line of ~12 people. They were struggling with the bins, the lady behind me had eight layers to disrobe and had forgotten she was carrying enough equipment in her carry-on to rival an IBM mainframe. She was slow and no where near the metal detector. Apparently, the premier exec line spits you out right near the detector, but you are expected to do an about face and get in line (ie. merge) with the “normal” line. I might have noticed it if there was a queue in the detector but it was like kindergarteners learning higher math in that line. “I have to take off my shoes? Yes, I have a laptop so?  Is a blackberry a laptop?” They were so lost compared to my overly rehearsed ballet of stripping and unloading that they did bit even register. 

I saw it when I was in the other side. I wanted to apologize (Not that anyone would believe me).  I wanted to say I’m sorry. I waited for the lady behind me, but she was struggling with an excessively large belt buckle and a half sweater/half jacket that I did not get the opportunity to tell her. I had become “that guy”. The jerk in the airport. The guy, I too loathe.  The guy that I will yell out, grab by the collar, and inflict my own form of air rage on. To the lady behind me and the crowd at the United security line this morning: I’m sorry.  Next time call out, grab my collar and say, “Back of the line, bub!”

Posted via email from beuk’s posterous

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