I grew up as the kid who went on vacation a lot. It wasn’t just because I was spoiled, which I admittedly was, but was also due to the fact that my dad traveled a lot for work so it seemed natural to take me along whenever they could. My parents also deemed it important for me to see places outside of where I grew up, so I was very often the elementary school kid toting around a purple JanSport and a walkman through the terminals of various airports.
I’ve had a frequent flyer account with Delta since I was eight. I know more about flying and airports than I care to admit. I can lift your suitcase and tell you whether or not it’s going to get you an “Over 50” fee. I can tell you that the only Starbucks in the Salt Lake City airport is located by the G gates and that if your connection in Atlanta is less than 45 minutes, you are absolutely screwed.
But after my last flight (which was an impromptu one), when I tossed my keys on the counter and plopped onto my couch while trying to summon the Force to get a Diet Coke from my fridge, I had a thought:
I’m so over flying.
When I see those Sandals.com commercials, I do not think about resorts with open bars, or how much fun it would be to splash around in the ocean, or how sweet it’s going to be to be able to post Instagrams where I can use the tropical emojis. I think about how much it is going to suck to get there. Those people in the commercial look happy because they’re on day three, not day one. If the shot was from directly coming from the airport, they would look dehydrated and would probably be bitching about how J2 wouldn’t stop kicking the back on their barely reclined seat for the entire flight.
And I get it, girl who wants to tell me how much her trip to Thailand changed her life. Traveling is a great way to experience things, cultures, and places, and you have to fly there. But you know how I would like to experience Thailand? Vicariously through Anthony Bourdain on my couch. With my feet up. Beer in hand. Where I don’t have to fly for 21 hours next to a guy who inevitably tries looking down my shirt every time I go for my under the seat bag and gets so drunk off of $8 Blue Moons that he has the audacity to make a Bangkok joke to the flight attendant.
I’m sick of fighting for the armrest and breathing recycled air next to strangers who think every little patch of turbulence means we’re going down. I’m tired of having to fight through crowds of girls going on “vacay” together who are forcing the poor Uber XL driver to take a picture of them all throwing out their best skinny arm/hip pop, just to get to baggage claim. I really don’t want to hear about your rewards program, tiny airline I will never use again, and if I see one more person trying to shove a full Kenneth Cole upright suitcase from TJMaxx into the overhead bin because they wouldn’t splurge to check that bag, I’m probably going to scream.
Now, I don’t hate vacations. Once I land and sprint away from the airplane and fellow passengers like I am being chased by Ronda Rousey, it’s great. The actual vacation part is fantastic; I’d be dumb to say otherwise. Who doesn’t love a no commitment week filled with drinking and buying memorabilia? But then I get that little email reminder from Virgin American that “It’s time to check into your flight!” and my annoyance level is off the charts.
They say it’s not the destination, it’s the journey. Well, pardon my French, but fuck the journey. The journey is just plain awful.
So thanks mom and dad for letting me get the still excited, still fascinated with airports phase out of my system when I was bright eyed and bushy tailed and just wanted to visit the Ty store in O’Hare. From now on, I will be making every excuse in the book to not have to go anywhere I can’t Uber to and for the further destinations; what do you guys know about the train? .
Image via YouTube