Tag: American Airlines

One Pound Over the Line, Sweet Gary

On By Ann H.In Seatmates & SaintsLeave a comment

I always feel like Santa Claus when I’m packing for sales school—or at least how I imagine Santa would feel. The moment I step into the Swag Closet, I lose all sense of decorum. Instead of rationing out the tchotchkes we’ve so carefully ordered, I start gleefully grabbing: pens, coasters, notepads, charging cords… “Oh, and some of THESE!” I say, shoving more goodies into my roller bag. “Why not? Everyone’s a good boy or girl at sales school!”

Which would be fine—except there were 35 attendees this time, and the notepads are hefty 8.5 x 11 monsters. We spare no expense! Once those were stacked in, I knew I’d be pushing the American Airlines weight limit. But instead of taking anything out, I just shrugged. It’s a work trip. I’ll expense the overweight fee.
(Friends, I had not looked up the overweight fee.)
Turns out, it’s $100. One. Hundred. American. Dollars.

When I got to the AA counter and saw the sign, anxiety gripped my chest. I’d assumed it would be $50 max. My boss probably wouldn’t notice—or care—but still. The principle of it burned.

I waited in line, wheeled up my bags, and met Gary, the AA agent with the glorious hair of an angel. (#foreshadowing) He was there to verify my ID and confirm I hadn’t handed my bags off to a stranger in the parking lot. Bag one—my personal items—cruised over the scale at a neat 23 pounds. Precision packing, thank you very much.

Then came the swag bag. I hefted it onto the scale and held my breath. The numbers spun like a sadistic episode of The Price is Right, hovering over and under the dreaded cutoff.

Finally: 56 pounds.

FUCK! One pound? Really?

I was just about to start yanking notepads out when Gary leaned in. “You know,” he began, “our limit is 55 pounds. Anything over gets hit with the overweight fee.” He gave me a sly wink—and I noticed his index finger had slipped under the top handle of my bag. Just a slight tug upward… and like magic, the scale blinked back to 55.

Gary smiled. “That being said, looks like your bag is perfect. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir!” I grinned, practically glowing with gratitude. It wasn’t even 6 a.m., and I’d already met a real-life airport angel. He wished me a safe trip and sent my bags down the belt.

In the chaos of travel, it’s easy to get annoyed and forget our shared humanity. But it’s moments like this—small kindnesses, quiet conspiracies—that make the journey worth it.

So here’s to Gary at the American Airlines counter in Des Moines—baggage whisperer, early morning MVP, and patron saint of swag haulers everywhere. You didn’t have to help. But you did. And I won’t forget it.

(Also, shout-out to me for clocking my personal bag at exactly 23 pounds—the same as Carrrl. Coincidence? No. Packing for a three-day trip is basically just preparing to carry one judgmental cat through TSA.)

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

The DCA Sprint (Boot Edition)

On By Ann H.In Airport Offenses, Tales from 14ALeave a comment

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.