So I witnessed a game of twenty-ton musical chairs last Sunday night. Again. You’ve noticed this, I’m sure. Waiting for someone to pick you up at the airport as the slow and steady stream of cars goes by.
I never liked musical chairs when I was young. I was always one of the smallest of my friends or one of the youngest of my cousins. A dangerous game, believe me. You remember it. The herd of kids rushing past the backs of the chairs while dragging their feet in front of the seats. All clumped together as they attempt to have their rump in place for when the music stops. Let’s just say I always lost. And I almost always ended up on the floor! But back to the airport.
Most every airport has a cell-phone lot where your ride can wait until you call. You know, after you’ve picked up your bag and are actually ready for your ride. Yet, some people don’t seem to use it. A lot of people, I would guess. So there I stood last Sunday night. Waiting for my daughter to pick me up. After I called her.
Now, this part of the airport is one of my least favorite. This is where people smoke after their flights. Where the carbon dioxide can choke you on a hot day. Where cars honk even though they know who they’re looking for and the person they’re picking up knows who’s picking them up! But most of all, I can’t stand the slow drive-by of cars whose drivers are hoping they’ll magically see their pick-up and not have to drive around the airport again. *sigh*
This funeral procession of tailgating cars clogs up the drive and ticks me off, since I can usually spot my ride waaaaaay behind the line. So I breathe slowly and deeply. If I’m away from the smokers, that is. I count to ten a few times. And I wait until the procession passes and my ride pulls up to the curb.
Yeah, I still don’t like musical chairs.