The Terminal

“If you go into my bathroom, in my top drawer, you’ll see the orange can, that’s your heat spray. You can just take it. … Oh, yeah, that’s Sam’s underwear. You can give it back to Sam. And call me if my roommates aren’t there. … Okay, I love you. … Bye.”

Who is Sam? A boy or a girl? Girlfriend? Lover? Accomplice? Underwear-sharing friend? And who is the long blonde ponytail, with purposefully chicly passé faux leather jacket and glittery black head band, talking to? Why is she calling them from the security tunnel in Newark Airport? With her perfect sorority hair and her perfect sorority tone and poise.

“Hey, [insert girl’s name which is slipping my mind] is going to bring you a bag of your Victoria’s Secret bras and underwear. Love you. Bye.”

And her perfect sorority back-to-back cell phone calls, oblivious to the fact that we are all wondering why she has Sam’s underwear. Well, why do you have Sam’s underwear?

An airline employee pushing a wheelchair rolls down the exclusive access aisle, accompanied by the wheelchair’s companion and tailed by a mother pushing a stroller filled by two-year-old twin girls. A wheelchair and a two-seat stroller, all in one family? My only thought is that they must be treated like royalty at airports.

Note to self: in future, find parents or in-laws with wheelchairs and have lots of young children. Never wait in another line again.

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