It started midair, like all good stress spirals do.

The pilot announced we’d be entering a holding pattern for “about 30 minutes” due to congestion on the ground. My connection window? 50 minutes. My next flight? Still marked “on time.” I did the math — and the math said, “Good luck, sister.”

By the time we touched down, that 30-minute overage had stretched to 48. And instead of docking at gate D41 (just one concourse away from my connection at E47), we were pulling up to B19. Glorious.

The flight attendant made an announcement — for any who were not connecting or had ample time, please GTFO of the way for those passengers with tight connections.

I’d already overheard the couple next to me strategizing — their connection was in Concourse C. Lucky ducks. I heard the man tell his wife they still had about 25 minutes left; their plane was just starting to board.

I checked my AA app again.
Boarding for my connecting flight closed at 11:45 a.m.
It was now 11:42.
They had just finished connecting the jetway.

“Fuck,” I muttered, shutting off my screen and reminding myself to breathe.

The guy glanced at me — sympathy in his eyes.
“When does yours board?”

“It closes in two minutes. E concourse.”

He grinned ruefully and shook his head. That little shake said, “Better luck next time, partner.”

I looked down at my left foot — currently encased in a boot from an injury I’d recently acquired in the Dominican. (Like you haven’t had one too many rum punches on the beach — don’t judge.) Even on my good days, I average a 20-minute mile right now. And this was NOT a good day.

“You’ll never make it,” I told myself. “You’re fucked. Might as well go to the American counter and get rebooked.”

And yet… I ran.

Well. I stump-ran.

I jumped behind the couple as they pushed their way off the plane. The one thing I’ve found about wearing a boot? People give you space. I used it.

Two steps into the terminal and “Break Stuff” by Limp Bizkit started in my earbuds.

Challenge accepted.

My lizard brain took this as a sign from the universe. Fred Durst was an angel sent to pace me on my quest. I used the weight of the boot to my advantage — swinging it like a pendulum, using the momentum to power my sprint-stump combo down Concourse B. I recalled my ancestor, Gimli (son of Glóin), who famously said: “We dwarves are dangerous over short distances.”

I wish I could tell you I made it.

That I stomped triumphantly to Gate E47 just as the jetway door was closing, boarding pass glowing in hand.

But no. That was not my fate.

I made it swiftly to the end of Concourse B.
Then… I hit a wall.

“Ma’am, this is a crisis,” my whole body yelled.

My lungs were on fire (and not in a fun “hot AF” way). I was sweating profusely (shoutout to the overpacked backpack), and I was gasping for air with a stitch forming in my chest.

I couldn’t maintain my pace for five more feet — let alone ten more football fields.

Fred Durst gave way to Dee Snider. You’d think “We’re Not Gonna Take It” would be motivating, but at that point, it felt more like a sincere fucking promise from my lungs and heart.

I slowed.
But did I stop? No.
Did I maintain a reasonable pace? Also no.

I was a literal hot mess. My booted ankle throbbed. My chest felt tight, painfully open, and loose all at once. Each breath burned. My allergies made my nose and eyes run. (Of course — the one time I forgot to restock travel Kleenex.)

I was aware of the side-eyes from folks I passed. I must’ve looked very fetching.
But I did not stop…or reasonably slow down.

Finally, E47 came into view.
The jetway door was closed.
The plane was pushing back.

Friends… I almost boarded myself into the afterlife.

Still gasping and coughing, I made it to the gate agent. She looked at me kindly and said,
“Oh bless your heart, honey… you missed it.”

Brenda (LOVE you Brenda at DCA!) was kind enough to rebook me immediately. And she didn’t even flinch as I melted in front of her desk. Gotta love a hot flash on top of overexertion!

She got me on another flight shortly after. I made it easily — although I’m fairly sure the guy next to me thought I had tuberculosis.
I’m your huckleberry. (RIP, Val.)

Final Note:
Not one single golf cart during that entire hell-sprint.

Normally, they’re playing real-life Mario Kart through the terminal.
But when I actually needed one?

Crickets.
Rude.

Out of Office. Extra Everything.
Snark. Snacks. Seat 14A.