My first run-in with the pleasant, LaRonda, behind the check-in counter, is a reminder of why I am leaving Florida. If I had any doubts, this intolerant woman just solidified my decision when she gleefully announces, for all to hear, that my luggage is 15 pounds overweight and I have to fork over $150 dollars. I keep my poker face on and respond, “Can I pay cash?” I almost add, “Can I get some lubrication with that?” But it’s four o’clock in the morning and I haven’t had my latte yet, so I thank her for raping me and move on to the security checkpoint.
This is always fun because walking through the x-ray machine with my bare feet on the cold dirty floor is a really pleasant experience, and, brain fart, I never remember to bring socks. Next, I walk all the way to my gate, which is conveniently, ALWAYS at the end of the terminal, only to have them announce over the loudspeaker, in a syrupy sweet fake voice, that our gate has been changed and we have to hurry and get on the plane before they give our seats away. (Which is funny because I don’t see ANY standby passengers waiting around).
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