LAXative

I really don’t like LAX. I flew in last night and got lost, contradictory signs pointing me one way and then another as I struggled to find my way to my waiting car.

Today, I flew back. I’d been told the airport was a 15 minute drive from the office, so I left what I thought was ample time. But the person who told me 15 minutes must have a flying car, because it took double that.

Being stuck in traffic would have been bad enough, but that meant half an hour of the driver lecturing me on how I should arrive at least two hours before departure, while I was already stressed about missing my flight, and with me desperately fighting the urge to scream at him that every extra minute spent in LAX is purgatorial for me. I just about managed it.

Happily, TSA Pre Check means I was through security in a minute, then running through the airport to get to my gate 5 minutes before boarding.

Which was then delayed. Another chance for rage, or remorse, or binge eating sour candy and wondering why my jeans are getting tighter and tighter.

Tomorrow, my family make their way through LAX, in hopefully better shape, mental and physical, than me.

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