Scales & Panic: A Travel Essay

There are two types of people at the airport, and I married one of them. She believes in early arrival. Not just early—ceremonially early. The kind of early where you arrive so far ahead of time, the airline hasn’t even decided what gate the damn plane is going to.

Not an Airport, A train station. Still probably 3 hours early.

The monitor says: “Your Denver-bound flight is currently at 30,000 feet somewhere between Toronto and Atlanta.” The plane is still in the air. The pilot’s awake—probably at morning Pilates or looking for his coffee. Miss Mussolini sees that as “proper train timing.” I see it as a hostage situation with vending machines. To me, the airport is purgatory with wheeled luggage, emotional torture, and a plane train. Why show up early to sit in a vinyl chair, sweating next to someone eating garlic hummus, raw onion, and a hard-boiled egg like they’re trying to clear the row without paying for Comfort Plus, when you could be… literally anywhere else? Like home. Or asleep. Or in a mild car chase and still making it through TSA with seven minutes to spare. But Lindsey? She gets through security and transforms. Like she’s achieved something. She glides through the concourse like an extra in a Delta commercial. She checks the monitor even though she already knows the gate. She pulls out her Kindle—because she’s modern—and silently dives into another book where a dragon with questionable boundaries woos a mortal girl who’s “not like the others.” She’s not hiding it—she’ll tell you it’s smut and she’s proud of it—but the Kindle keeps her from having to give a TED Talk to the entire gate about dragon anatomy and emotional growth arcs. I like to think I treat the airport like a precision op. No fluff. No wasted motion. Just enough time to clear security and walk straight onto the plane. My system runs on execution. Lindsey runs on preparation. She has a checklist. An actual, printed checklist. Items. Boxes. Pen. We are early on purpose. She builds margin. I bet on timing. She plans for the mess. I assume I’ll dodge it.

I misread the signs and wind up halfway to Terminal C before realizing we were flying out of B. I leave room for one tactical error. So yeah—“precision” might be a stretch. Somewhere between the Hudson News and a man charging six devices from one outlet like it’s a hostage negotiation, we meet in the middle. Because travel isn’t about speed or comfort or efficiency. It’s about compromise. And silent judgment. And paying $12 for a Tide-to-Go pen at Hudson News like it’s a critical piece of mission gear. Also? TSA Knoxville now owns my open bottle of hair tonic. I had room for one tactical error. Not two. Turns out the checklist wasn’t the enemy this time.