Tag: 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.

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.