The plane finally arrived in Atlanta (my second trip within the week), and I was eager to stretch the old legs. But not as eager as the woman directly in front of me, who was so eager she almost didn't make it to the door.
She had a largish rolling carry on, with another bag awkwardly perched on top. After setting up her baggage jenga on wheels, she turned and RAN for the front of the plane. Except she only made it a foot and a half, before her cockeyed bags caught the side of the seats. So she stopped, adjusted the bags, and raced ahead another two feet to the next seat, and came to a jarring, baggage-jam induced halt.
So she adjust her bags, turned and ran... and stopped. And adjusted. And turned. And ran. And stopped.
Every single row from twenty to one. (Except, in the spirit of full disclosure, row eight, which she somehow got past fluidly, which allowed for more momentum when crashing into row seven.) The wide aisles of first class didn't help her, as she managed to dam up the passenger flow in the upscale seats as well.
She could, of course, have gone a titch more carefully and guided the bags smoothly and quickly up and past the bye-byeing attendents. But her need for speed didn't allow her to actually make any speed.
I suppose this story is a great metaphor for life, or love, or Nascar or something. But for now I'm just going to allow the event to be amusing. I was ready for a chuckle.
Just my thoughts,