Tag: just a little extra

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.

14A Was Taken. I Should Have Taken the Hint.

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

Is it true that life insurance pays double if you die at work?
Does that count if you’re returning from a work trip?
Asking for a friend.

TBH, I thought my family might find out on my last return flight home.

I should’ve known something was off when I booked the flight and 14A was already taken.
That was clearly a sign from the universe.

But no. I sighed and chose 14F instead.

Kinda the same thing, just the opposite side of the plane, right?

The majority of the flight was unremarkable.

The couple next to me were quietly sharing a Kit Kat and reading novels. Absolute angels.
I worked on my laptop for a while — captive audience, productivity boost.

When the flight attendant announced we’d begun our descent into Des Moines, I packed up my laptop, leaned back, and mentally prepared to land.
The air was noticeably rougher now. Not the worst turbulence I’ve flown through, but enough to twist my stomach.

Just as I was thinking, “Come on, just land this thing so my intestines can chill,” I looked out the window and saw the runway.

We were seconds from touching down when—

WHAM.
The plane jerks violently upward.
The nose tips up, and suddenly we’re climbing. Fast.

Friends, the cabin was silent as a crypt.
(Which is exactly what popped into my head. Because of course my brain turns into a Victorian novelist the minute I get anxious.)

We climbed to about 10,000 feet and entered a holding pattern.
We circled for 20 minutes — just enough time for everyone to start quietly panic-spiraling without making eye contact.
The turbulence had picked up.
You could feel people calculating exits and praying without looking like they were praying.

Round Two. FIGHT.

Eventually, we heard the landing gear drop.
Here we go.

The descent was worse.
Bumps. Jerks. Lurches. The kind of rocking where you instinctively start holding on to whatever’s around you — armrests, strangers, God.

The woman next to me and I weren’t exactly holding hands…
But we were both gripping the shared armrest like it was the last Oreo at a support group.

Then — the wheels hit.
Hard.

But we weren’t done.

The plane felt like it was skidding, coming in hot.
We started swaying side to side, like it was trying to remember which way was up.

I was positive we were about to start cartwheeling down the runway like a gymnast hopped up on Red Bull and chaos.

Funnily enough…
I wasn’t panicked.

I had questions, sure:

  • Am I going to be injured?
  • What’s it going to look like — like in those disturbingly realistic airplane crash movies I should not have watched?
  • Thank god we’re over Des Moines and not the remote Andes…
    (Okay, that wasn’t a question. That was a genuine thought:
    “If I die, you’re free to eat me. But I’m not sure I could handle surviving and having to eat someone else.”
    Yes, I watched Alive too young. I regret nothing.)

But mostly…
I was calm.
That “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it, so let’s just see what happens” kind of calm.

Is that growth?
Resignation?
Airborne nihilism?
Unclear.

Eventually, the plane stopped swaying.
We slowed down.
The cabin erupted in spontaneous applause — myself included.
Because we all knew:
We weren’t totally sure that was going to end in one piece.

As we taxied, the pilot came over the loudspeaker:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have landed in Des Moines…”

More applause.

“…and that’s why they pay us the big bucks.”

Nervous laughter. Somewhat unhinged. Fully earned.

Turns out wind gusts in Des Moines were topping over 50 MPH, making landings and takeoffs a very special kind of lottery.

Planes had to take off between gusts.
Every gate was backed up.
We sat on the tarmac for another hour…

And not a single person complained.

Bonus Moment: Exit Row Wisdom™️

I was in the exit row — and during pre-flight checks, the flight attendant (older guy, peak dry humor energy) gave us the standard safety speech:

“Are you willing and able to assist in case of an emergency?”

We all nodded.

“Any questions about the emergency exit?”

We shook our heads.

“Great. Because I can’t help you back here. If you can’t get the door open… I’ll wave to you from the other side of the window.”

Dark. Dry. Morbidly reassuring.

Reader, we laughed.
We had no idea how close that joke would come to reality.

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

First Class? First Mistake.

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

For once, I wasn’t sitting in 14A.

I got the offer to upgrade to first class for the low-low price of $40. I thought, “Treat yo’self!” with a smug little flourish.

After a harried two days at a sales conference – schmoozing and somehow getting stuck with every single bar bill – I was ready for peace. And quiet. And possibly unconsciousness.

Sure, it was only a 45 minute flight, but it was 8 a.m. and Mama had gotten in at 1 a.m. I had a solo seat. No seatmate. No chaos. Just a lovely window, a tray table for my latte, and a hopeful nap plan.

I sighed. I settled in. I thought: “Finally. I’ll be out before we even taxi.“

Then…they boarded.

They sat directly across the aisle from me. One was a middle aged woman…hair perfectly coiffed, sleek navy pantsuit, power heels. She was absolutely rocking the look. But also: who chooses heels for air travel? That’s punishment I don’t need.

Trailing behind her was a college-aged girl, gripping her venti Starbucks like it was a designer clutch.

It was clear from the start that these two didn’t know each other. The older woman gave her a polite hello and made the mistake of engaging in conversation.
I’m pretty sure she regretted that decision immediately.

College Girl had that voice—high-pitched, nasally, and capable of cutting glass at 20 paces. Within two sentences, my eardrums were pleading for mercy. No problem, I thought, I’ll get out my earbuds and sleep mask. I’ll be fine.

Oh no.
Not one bit.

That voice shoved its way into every crevice of my personal space. It was like a soundwave assault. She did not stop talking. Not once. And the volume?
Cranked. To. 11.

Top 5 Things I Learned From Their Conversation (…because I had no choice.)

  1. “OMG, I don’t know why I bother with Starbucks anymore. They ALWAYS mess up my order.”
    Sure. It’s their fault your grande iced oat milk brown sugar shaken espresso—with light ice, 2 extra shots, 1 pump vanilla, 1 pump sugar-free cinnamon dolce, sub brown sugar with honey blend, and almond milk cold foam—got dairy foam.
    This is the hill, apparently.
  2. “My brother says I’m bougie, but like… I just CAN’T sit in economy. This face was made for first class.”
    Your voice was made for Geneva Convention violations. Uncle.
  3. “I LOVE TikTok. My sorority sisters and I started a channel but we never get any views.”
    Can’t imagine why. Especially if your entire content strategy is volume.
  4. “Can you believe they aren’t doing beverage service on this flight? Ugh, my skin is SO dry…”
    Girl. You brought a $9 foam drink. You’ll survive.
  5. “OMG, like, I know I talk too much. I’m trying to tone it down…”
    And then she immediately launched into a story about her ex-boyfriend’s uncle’s foot surgery. With full vocal fry. For the remaining 20 minutes.

Let this be your reminder:
You can upgrade your seat.
You can book the solo spot.
You can sip the fancy drink.
But nothing—nothing—can protect you from humanity.

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