Not quite a two-hour trip

My flight to Atlanta this afternoon is not one, two or even three hours delayed, but will leave Houston three and a half hours after its scheduled departure time. Apparently the hurricane Dennis-related weather in Atlanta is not something the airline industry deems safe at the moment. Fine by me. The current downpour at our own airport has delayed all flights departing here as well, so for reasons here and there, no one is going anywhere at the moment.

The waiting area I’m sitting in is divided by people engrossed in watching the woman I’ll tell you about in a moment and the guy who assumes he’s above the rest of us, and is extremely put out that his flight is delayed (nevermind the safety of the pilots or flight crew). His polo shirt tucked in, making his beer gut hang over the top of his shorts, he is booked on a flight to New Orleans and is presently demanding that he be upgraded to first class due to this delay. HE has a meeting in New Orleans and HAS TO BE ON TIME. Oh really, Mr. Important Guy, I wonder what global urgency hinges on your presence. The counter crew is not giving in, nor have they killed him. They deserve an award for their patience.

I’m not sure which is bothering me more, this guy or the woman sitting two rows across from me who is eating fried chicken. I’d say she’s going after it like a raccoon on a crayfish but that’d be grossly unfair to the coon. My goodness she must be hungry. But why couldn’t she eat it in the restaurant? Why do people eat fried chicken in public? This entire area now smells like chicken, and it’s disgusting to watch her not only gnawing on the chicken, but LICKING HER FINGERS after each bite. The guy sitting next to me looked at me and said, “Great, my flight is late AND I gotta see her eat that chicken.” I think it’s a universal us vs. them thing – you either do it or you don’t. She does; we don’t.

So, this waiting area is filled with people either rolling their eyes in disgust at the guy, or glaring in disgust at that woman. And each and every one of us is forced to breathe in the scent of fried chicken. I’m just thankful that neither is on my flight to Atlanta.