Don't tell me to reLAX: Diagnosis...terminal

I am happy to report that, for the most part, my mental health has returned to its somewhat precarious pre-Covid state. Unfortunately, the heart-pounding anxiety that accompanies my necessary visits to airports was grandfathered in as part of the pre-existing package. And, satanically-seduced by low air fare and a direct flight, I found myself at the fifth busiest airport IN THE WORLD. 

After spending almost three delightful weeks in my company, Sydney's beau, Douglas was a little surprised to discover this quirky little component of my character. I had, after-all, been a model house guest. Quiet. Dignified. Calm. Quiet. The only minor blip was when we finally had to print out a sign reading "Yes" after the third day of Douglas asking Sydney if I was being sarcastic. An act that, I feel, only served to highlight my time-saving, problem-solving traits. 

So, when Sydney subtly alluded to my fear of airports, Douglas thoughtfully did what he could to minimize my anxiety by printing out and reviewing the terminal map with me. I was unable to concentrate, however, because he'd printed it out in black and white. Early on in my visit, Douglas had delivered an impassioned street-side speech about the lack of sincerity of the pet owners who had posted a "Lost Cat" flier of their calico in black and white. Obviously, I had failed to impress Doug as a model house guest. 

As you can see from the picture above, my assigned gate was immediately to the right outside of TSA. Couldn't have been easier. Terminal 5 was similar in layout to my home airport of Buffalo so I set about getting my step count up during my several hour wait. In the midst of that, I happened to catch a glimpse of the airport monitor that now listed my flight as tbit. What the heck was tbit? To be determined? No. Non-American donut holes? If so, I would throw a great big ol' American fit. 

I tossed off a text to my family as I searched for answers. A nice young man sporting a "God is dope" sweatshirt was helpful. Tbit stands for the Tom Bradley International Terminal. "Isn't he playing for Tampa Bay now?" I asked. "You're thinking of Tom Brady," he said before dashing off. Sydney Lynn was calling by this time as she and Douglas were busy navigating the LA freeway on their way home from dropping me off. She had investigated tbit and was trying to direct me to the new terminal. How hard could it be?

First of all, there were a LOT of stairs. What a great opportunity to get my step-count up, I thought to myself, never imagining the insurmountable journey before me. The Hobbits had it easier headed to Mordor.

 

Three sketchy tunnel-passages and more stairs than I can count later, I began looking for energy-consuming methods.

 

 

Danger lurked around every corner.

 

A slight drop in morale here.

Sydney and Doug were following my adventures in real time...noting my slowly moving dot on Google Maps and receiving fun picture texts from me. "Should we go back?" worried Doug. "No," Sydney reassured him, "Profanity shows that she isn't giving up. Fury is better than fear for her. The dot is still moving so she hasn't gone fetal yet"

  

Jaded (and so...so tired), I would no longer be fooled by propaganda.

I somehow emerged into Times Square. Four stories of sensory overload and high-end shops. I window-shopped Rolex watches for Brad ($13,000) and Sydney texted my moving dot to stop at Victoria's Secret. I lapped Madison Avenue twice before I realized there was a tbit A & B. I finally found the hidden passageway next to the gourmet cheese shoppe. I paused but then thought, I'll just come back when I find my gate.

Sigh.

I had to be getting closer. The signs were all there. I was shooting off unhappy texts to my family as proof of life as I plodded along. Gripping the steering wheel in frustration, Doug predicted that he and Sydney would make it home before I made it to my supposed "gate." "How is she editing photos so fast?" he asked as they continued to monitor my slowly moving dot on the screen. "It's her super-skill," Sydney told him.

And then, finally, there it was. I had initially been assigned the closest possible, most conveniently accessible gate in the entire airport only to be reassigned to the furthest possible, least conveniently accessible gate in the entire airport. I passed under a pair of hungry vultures perched on the now-closed food mart gate while dodging a tumbleweed. 

 

My several hour wait time had dwindled to thirty minutes and my step-count boasted record numbers. And I was starving with only Doug's kind gift of Jolly Ranchers to my name. The cheese shoppe was an unfathomable distance away. I remembered passing a vending machine and, like a lost soul in the desert, staggered over to this industrial oasis. I gazed at their offerings with distain. Amy Mosiman would NEVER, even under threat of death, pay $2.50 for a Little Debbie product. Hostess...maybe. And the chip selection made me shudder. I would not compromise my snacking morals for this.

A determined hunt later, I found a tiny bodega open and quickly snagged a Pepsi. two string cheeses, and a three-pack of Ferrero Rocher and didn't even blink when I was charged $11.45. 

I vowed to ration my precious acquisitions.  One Ferrero Rocher an hour, interspersed by dainty bites of string cheese. I couldn't even say "thank you" to the gate agent who charmingly (ie: patronizingly) scanned my old-school paper ticket like I was a relic from Hee-Haw because my cheeks were stuffed, hamster-style, with mozzarella. The Ferrero Rocher were consumed before I'd fought my way into my confusing seat belt. Only Doug's Jolly Ranchers survived to sustain me during the Red Eye flight home.

With my clunky pink ear phones plunked unashamedly on my head, I took turns staring at the small movie monitor and out the window as I awaited the sunrise that would reunite me with Brad Mosiman.

Touch down! Tom Brady forgotten, I was welcomed by a more familiar and comforting figure. I fairly jogged up the gangway and twirled about in the nearly empty (but clearly marked) corridors. Like Dorothy, I needed a ridiculous quest to teach me that there is no place like your home airport. I mulled this analogy over as I waited patiently for my bag...realizing I encapsulated nearly all the characters in Oz from the brainless Scarecrow to the Cowardly Lion to the Tin Man with my heart fairly beating out of my chest. And, like them, I had had all I needed to succeed with me, all along. 

 

My reunion with my husband was bittersweet. Safe in his arms, I was home. Smiling, I sat next to him in the van, chatting animatedly...the memories of my traumatic journey fading away like a bad dream...when I spotted, from the corner of my eye, an item that caused all the feelings associated with that nightmare to suddenly resurface. I reached down and grabbed it by the scruff, dangling from my fingers like a mangy mutt. "What is this?" I croaked, hoarsely.  Brad glanced at the snack bag, confused. "You don't like these?" he asked, before grinning. "Better these on an airplane than deLays!" 

I came home for this?