Mad dash through airport is not for the faint of heart — or weak of bladder
I am a procrastinator who runs late for everything. Five minutes late for a salon appointment. Six minutes late for a manicure. Fortunately, my hair stylist and manicurist are very forgiving. Such is not the case with airplane pilots. Which is why I almost wet my pants.
“I’ve GOT to go!” I whimpered, as my friend, Deanne, maneuvered her SUV down the highway.
“We can’t stop now or we’ll miss the plane,” my other pal, Lydia, said. “Just suck it up, Shell. And stop drinking that tea!”
Easy for Lydia to say: The woman is a camel. She is the one person I know who can go for hours without hydration or bathroom breaks. She also is the only person I know who runs later than I do. And she was the reason we were running late now.
The three of us — Deanne, Lydia and I — had just spent a lovely day at the beach. Deanne lives in Florida and Lydia and I had flown down to visit her. Now it was time to pack up our stuff and head for home. But Lydia had other plans.
“We still have time to go to lunch,” she said.
“But your plane leaves in a couple hours, doesn’t it?” Deanne asked.
“Actually, a little less than that,” Lydia said. “But we’ll be OK. We just have to hurry.”
Procrastinator that I am, I know you don’t mess with planes. They will leave you standing at the gate if you’re just a few seconds late. Lydia knows this, too, because her long-suffering husband, Raffi, had missed a flight just the week before.
“Raffi just didn’t run through the terminal fast enough,” Lydia recounted later.
Lydia, of course had run like a gazelle, making it on the plane with a minute to spare. You would think she’d have learned her lesson. Not.
Our ocean side table at the restaurant was perfect but our service was slow. After three glasses of iced tea, we took our blackened grouper sandwiches to go. My bladder bounced with every bump in the road.
“Run, Shell, Run! Run like the wind!” Lydia yelled, when we got to the airport.
I kicked off my wedges and ran barefoot down the terminal. At one point, my sunglasses fell off and I stepped on them. Though a big black lens popped out, I stuck them back on my face.
“Hold on, ma’am,” the TSA agent said, stopping me at a checkpoint. “Something showed up when we X-rayed your bag.”
‘You’re not leaving me!’
That “something” turned out to be a water bottle that cost me an additional four minutes.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and called up ahead to Lydia.
“Stop!” I shrieked. “You’ve got to wait for me! You’re not leaving me like you did Raffi!”
To her credit, my best friend stopped in her tracks. I caught up with her in front of a ladies’ room — but didn’t have time to venture inside.
“My bag is pounding my bladder with every step I take,” I told her, pleading.
‘Never again’
“Here, give it to me,” she ordered.
And like a pack mule she forged ahead. We made it on the plane with three minutes to spare. Though passengers aren’t allowed to visit restrooms till after takeoff, a kind flight attendant took pity on me.
“See that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Lydia asked, when I returned to my seat.
I dug in my bag and pulled out my cold grouper sandwich. She pulled out her camera and took a photo of me eating.
“Never again,” I said.
“Oh, you know there’ll be a next time, Shell.”
Sadly, there probably will.
This story was originally published November 27, 2021 at 9:00 AM.
