Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (e books free to read .txt) 📕

The priority line is for pros.

No one travels in their pajama bottoms in the priority line.

No one brings the pillow from their bed in the priority line.

No one requires an explanation that “no metal” includes coins in the priority line. No one tries to plow through anyway, despite carrying enough quarters to feed an entire city block’s worth of meters for a week.

No one has to get the full-on-plastic-gloved-how’s-your-father after failing the metal detector because they had the good sense to remove their n-i-p-p-l-e ring before they got to the airport in the priority line.

More likely, they never got it pierced in the first place.

The priority line fills me with the smug sense of self-satisfaction that is almost wholly lacking in other areas of my life, due to my inability to manage many of the basic aspects of living.

Sometimes when I’m in the priority line, I like to predict who’s going to be trouble in the regular line. You, who I just witnessed buying the enormous water bottle? Try not to look surprised when security removes it from your bag. And you, I’m wagering in thirty seconds you’re going to be bitching about you had no idea you couldn’t bring a half gallon of shampoo, likely because you haven’t watched the news in ten years. [I also predict you cut your hair yourself. Often, these qualities are soup and sandwich.] And you, with the purse, the backpack, the suitcase, and the shopping tote—the “limit two carry-on items” business is not simply a suggestion.

One time I watched an otherwise normal-looking woman holding a bunch of bananas in the security line, which… what the fuck? Where was she going that bananas don’t exist? Sure, I could see wanting to have a banana on the plane as a snack, because they’re fairly tidy and there’s no annoying crunch factor and they’re self-contained. Plus, personally, I have a pathological need to never throw bananas away. [My freezer is a testament to this. Oh, and if anyone needs one hundred thirty-seven overripe bananas to make bread? Call me!] But six bananas? For a lady traveling alone? I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing when the TSA guy explained that unless her bananas were in a bag, they counted as a carry-on piece. And then I watched as she ran the bananas through the conveyor belt and then how all the TSA guards gathered around the screen pointing and asking in incredulous tones, “Are those bananas?”

I posit that travel can make the very best of us a little stupid; for those who blithely stroll through the metal detector with a dinner-plate-sized belt buckle, maybe they’re just having an off day. What I don’t get is why airline travel causes people to forget very basic manners, but it does and they do. When I had to catch a connecting flight in Memphis recently, I was overwhelmed by the heady smell of all the rib joints in the terminal. To me, airport food is a necessary evil. I try to stick with reliable standbys like McDonald’s or plain turkey sandwiches or bags of almonds due to my penchant for avoiding airline bathrooms. [How do people join the Mile High Club in there when I have to open the door to bend over and pick up a paper towel?] But one whiff of Memphis barbecue and I was ready to throw my rigid travel rules out the window. Unfortunately, I had only five minutes to get to my gate and what was I going to do, suck on a pork bone while jammed between everyone else flying coach?

Apparently I was one of the few who didn’t make this choice. I watched in horror as passenger after passenger boarded with stacks of short ribs and sampler plates and burnt ends. Although not seated directly next to anyone tonguing up a mess of ribs, I was fortunate enough to have a visual on a man one seat up and over cleaning every scrap off of his order, before neatly storing the naked bones in the seat-back pocket in front of him.

Previously I thought I couldn’t hate anything more than flying out of the United terminal in O’Hare where passengers load up on Nuts on Clark’s cheddar and caramel popcorn. I’ve spent many an unpleasant flight next to egregious finger-lickers, but in terms of lip smacking, nothing compares to being seated near someone enjoying the Neelys’ slow-fired finest.

And yet if I were to express exactly how much they were annoying me, I’d end up on the terror watch list.

So not fair.

I believe my purpose in life is to be the World’s Manners Monitor and I hate when my efforts are thwarted.

The travel portion of my book tour this year concluded in Seattle. Can I tell you something about Seattle? Everyone there is a filthy liar. They’re all, “Don’t move to Seattle—it’s so rainy!” And yet every time I’ve been there, a tiny amount of rain falls before the whole sky explodes into rainbows and sunlight. Seattleites mean to hog up all the stunning vistas and good coffee and flowering bushes for themselves. Bet on it.

Anyway, I finished doing Seattle media very early in the morning so I had the day to shop and explore. My friend Joanna traveled to New York with me to work as my “assistant” for the day and I wanted to buy her a present. On the way to Pike’s Market, I found a Finnish store full of Marimekko goods and I got her some stuff I knew she’d love.

My policy is to never buy more than I’m going to dispose while on the road, but it was my last city and I figured the world wouldn’t end if I checked my bag. So I stocked up with confidence before inhaling my own weight in crepes and espresso.

I spent the rest of the day on the hotel’s deck watching tugboats dock enormous container ships, while listening to some blowhard yammer into his phone about