“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What do you mean you can’t tell which one is your bag?” The epic eye roll identified a woman picking up her mother and father at the airport.
Amen, sister. It was 10:45 pm and we had suffered though flight delays and an overeager pilot who bounced us like a ball across the tarmac. Everyone around this baggage claim carousel was done, especially the daughter with her parents standing next to me.
One of my pet peeves as a frequent traveler is how people can’t identify their bags. Sure, my black roll-aboard blends in with all the other black bags on the carousel but I spot it instantly like an overprotective mother on the playground or an Emperor Penguin finding my chick in an enormous crowd of baby penguins in the Antarctic.
My maternal instinct kicks in at that moment. Further down the carousel, I spot some strange man with his hands on my baby and is pulling it towards him. My instincts are to begin shouting “stranger danger” and to push my way through the crowd.
“Hey, hey you. That’s my bag.” I sound pissed and the guy looks up.
“Are you sure?” He still has his big meaty hand around the handle.
“Pretty sure I’m the only one with a Delta frequent flyer tag at this United baggage claim.” If only snark could kill, there would be a lot less people traveling alongside me.
“Oh yeah,” he says, looking down at the bag and letting go reluctantly. He then promptly turns back to the carousel and grabs a dark blue bag.
Blue. My own eye roll must be epic as I step away from baggage claim.