Airport fail, the Phoenix edition

So since I made it through security in Denver AND DC with no issues(the plane will probably explode), I have nothing to complain about and nothing funny to report. But, since that’s boring, I’ve decided to finally tell the Phoenix airport story, which is a favorite of mine.

Back when I lived in DC, when my travel was somewhat normal, I took a trip to Vegas with 4 other girls for a bachelorette party, which looking back, somewhat rivaled The Hangover.

The trip was seemingly simple. Surprise engaged friend at airport at 6am, fly with girls to Vegas (some I knew, some I didn’t), drink obscene amounts of booze, trouble ensues, take pictures, fly home.

But, no. I didn’t realize I’d need to add, almost fucking die on an escalator, to that list. But sure, whythefucknot.

So. February 2006. Me and said girls arrived in Phoenix, our layover spot, with no hassle at all. Our friend was surprised and out of her mind excited we were heading to Vegas. We were equally pumped and ready to unleash ourselves on Vegas, so excited, in fact that we all dressed up for our flight…you know, just in case we hit the ground running off the plane.

Now I can’t quite remember what anyone else was wearing but I do know that me dressing up that day consisted of wearing knee high black boots with four inch heels and an angora wool turtleneck sweater that was tight as hell, primarily because I thought it made my tits look nice, which was apparently more important than say comfort for me at the time. (Keep in mind, I’m currently at the airport wearing a sweat suit, no underwear and flip flops. Times have changed)

So. There we were, all dolled up and standing in line at the gate, getting ready to board the plane when we hear,
“We’ll now take passengers in zones 1 and 2.”

I look down at my ticket. I’m zone B. I look at the girls. “What zone are you guys?” I ask.

“C,” says one girl.

“A,” says another.

We all look at each other while every other person boards the plane. Someone nearby offers, “I think you’re all on the OTHER Vegas flight that leaves now.”

WhatintheFUCK. We ask the gate keeper. She nods and then ever so helpfully adds, “It’s boarding now, all the way across the airport. But you probably won’t make it.” Fucking bitch.

“RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN.” Someone shrieked and I instantly felt like I was in some horrible movie where survival depended on my running skills and speed which are non-existant and therefore in my head meant I would die via death by zombie or fireball because those are really the only thing people run from in movies.

So anyway, we were apparently now running at TOP SPEED, which no one warned me about, because when I looked up, all the other girls were now 50 yards ahead of me. So I was sprinting, or at least my version of sprinting. I’m sure to the typical bystander, I just appeared to be dragging my legs awkwardly behind me, much like limping or dragging an leg that fell asleep. My lungs were failing me, my face was purple and I was sweating. What was more distracting was the fucking titalicious sweater I opted to wear was now like second skin and the turtleneck portion was choking me and all I could think about was how I was overheating and needed to get this motherfucking sweater off me STAT. Between that and the 50 pound carry-on I was racing with, I was beginning to want to sob, but knew that would only slow me down more.

This is the point of the story where all 4 other girls ahead of me pounced onto the walking escalator and bounded down it like a bunch of gazelles. At the end, they, not missing a beat, resumed sprinting, banged a left at the Starbucks on the corner and carried on down that terminal. As I approached the walking escalator, I was wheezing and spitting violently from my lips, swearing and acting generally bullshit. I couldn’t even see them anymore. You MUST catch up, I thought as I weebled toward the end of the escalator, still trying to drag my legs as fast as midgetly possible.

And then it happened. Just as I attempted to pounce off the walking escalator, as fluidly as possible, one foot off and still running….the goddamned grate, those asshole jagged metal teeth, they attacked my right boot and ate it alive as I went to pounce off the escalator. This assault by technology launched me two feet into the air, head first, sending me tumbling fast on my hands and knees. My carry-on went flying and I felt like I was in slow-motion now, scrambling to get up off my skinned and now bleeding knees as the man who ran the corner coffee shop offered, WHILE CROSSING HIS ARMS AND LAUGHING, “Your friends are leeeeeeaving you.”. No offer to help, just an easy chance to mock the crazy looking mess that was crawling around on the floor, hacking and hallucinating.

“Thank you,” I said, but my eyes totally countered with, you fucking asshole.

I finally stopped shaking and rolling around on the floor, picked up my heavy as shit duffle bag and limped the rest of the terminal with my broken heel. Fuck running. We were either going to make the flight or not and I’d leave it to the Olympic relay team I was traveling with.

As I slowly limped up to the gate, all four girls, now sitting and discussing the flight we were rescheduled to, all whipped their heads up when they saw me.

“I’m fucking dying. I need a teeshirt. Please dear fucking god someone give me a teeshirt before this sweater eats me alive.” I was dripping with sweat, my hair matted to my face, snot down my cheek, bleeding from the knees and looking like at any time, I could go into cardiac arrest.

They all burst out laughing and continued to laugh harder and louder as I told them in dramatic detail about how the walking escalator almost fucking killed me.

One of my friends handed me a teeshirt. When I came back out, her friend took a picture of me. “Asshole,” I said to the picture taking girl I didn’t know.

If only I had that picture now.