AllFreeNovel
Share Us
1
ANNIE
Bras with no underwire are all fun and games until you’re racing through a crowded airport, leaping over rogue suitcases like an Olympic hurdler as you wave your boarding pass in the air (uselessly) and yell “wait for me” (equally uselessly). Like the pilot’s going to hear you all the way from the flight deck and take enough pity on you to halt the flight.
Lucky for me, the useless yelling and waving lend me enough of a “move out of the way for the crazy person” vibe that the crowds at the Logan Airport part like the Red Sea. Unlucky for me, by the time I arrive at my gate in a panicked, sweaty mess, I’m wearing my breathable, non-cancer-causing, metal-underwire-free eco-bra like a necklace.
“Hi,” I pant-gasp at the attendant as I shove my hands up my sweater to return my over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder back to an appropriate holding position.
Attendant lady’s eyebrows raise dubiously as her gaze follows my hands’ path under my sweater, her frosted pink lips frozen in a grimace.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not a pervert,” I explain wheezily. “I bought this bra off a Tiktok ad. Needless to say, it doesn’t really work.”
Frosty Lips looks momentarily stunned. “Pardon me?”
“I’m a sucker for those change-your-life marketing scams.”
It’s true. I am the ultimate target market for those clickbait-y social media ads—the Millennial version of infomercials. I could explain further that I have drawers full of blackhead removers that don’t work, no less than four weighted exercise hula hoops for slimming the tummy region that I’ve used a grand total of twice, lip gloss that’s meant to have a plumping effect but really just feels like you’ve inserted your lips in a hornet’s nest, and—
“Ma’am, your ID and boarding pass, please.” Frosty is still staring at me, and I notice her fingertips hovering near an intercom. She’s obviously ready to call for backup.
I hastily yank my hands out from under my sweater and proffer my rather crumpled boarding pass at her. She looks at it in disdain, then pinches her thumb and forefinger at the very corner like it’s a used Kleenex.
But snooty and disdainful as she might appear, my driver’s license picture sure pulls a smile out of her. Probably because I look like a young Elton John.
“This is you?” She doesn’t even try to hide the laughter in her voice.
I sigh, waving a hand as I bounce forward on my toes. “Bad breakup last year. Wore pajamas for a month. Gained ten pounds. Cut off all my hair to release the ‘bondage of self’ or whatever Jennifer Aniston called it.”
I don’t know why I feel the need to explain myself. But Idoknow that I will be at the Georgia DMV ASAP first thing Monday morning wearing full makeup to get myself a brand-new, peach-themed license with an updated photograph.
“I see,” she says in a tone that suggests she very much doesnotsee, and wants me out of her vicinity, like, five minutes ago. The lady hands back my documents. “You’re lucky we’re letting you on.”
Hallelujah, and thank you, AmeriJet!
“Thank you so much! Seriously!” I sing as Frosty Lips hands me my boarding pass, her little button nose crinkled. I choose to ignore it—there’s no way I’m letting her rain on my parade right now.
I half-run, half-stumble, half-skip through the gates and onto the jet bridge, but right before I hightail it through the door, I swear I hear her whistlingRocketman.
Sick burn, Frosty.
Little does she know that she basically saved my life. It’s Friday night, and this is the last flight of the day from Boston to Atlanta... where I start a new job on Monday morning.
Yeah, like three days from now.
Needless to say, my mother was none too impressed with my forward-thinking, life-planning skills. Or lack thereof.
I am excited to see my dear old mom tonight, though. Unlike me, she’s very much a planner—to the point that she’s texted me no less than six times to confirm that she’ll be at the airport to pick me up. Like mother,notlike daughter.
I step onto the plane and greet the stewardess at the door, flushing a little to see the full seats along the aisle. Excited as I am to have made the flight, the rest of the passengers clearly don’t share in my happiness. As I trip down the center aisle, muttering vague, non-targeted apologies to everyone already safely buckled in and ready for take off, judgy looks are cast my way.
One particularly kind gentleman (not) even starts a slow, sarcastic clap.
I can’t stand situations like this. You know, the type that make you feel itchy in your own skin.
Iwantto be one of those devil-take-hindmost, own-the-situation-with-confidence people. And deep down, I truly believe that there will come a day where I could stride to my seat with purpose and dignity, making it seem like I don’t care that I made 200 people wait because I am very busy and important with a great reason for being late.
But I’m one-eighth Canadian. And I’m late because I, a grown woman of twenty-six-and-a-half years old, just spent ten minutes hiding in the airport bathroom.
