I was sitting outside of gate Terminal C at Newark International Airport. I looked so foolish sitting in an abandoned wheelchair with my Birkin hanging by one arm handle while my dog is sprawled out on my lap passing more gas than an Exxon station.
We boarded the flight at noon, the original boarding time. After every passenger on the flight took their seat, the flight attendant brought me my Diet Coke with light ice, and things were looking pretty fab. I was preparing for takeoff by holding Jax, swallowing a bottle of anti-Nausea medication, and stalking multiple Kardashians on Instagram. Here is where shit hit the fan.
The pilot came on the intercom and told us all that the flight was suddenly delayed and that we needed to exit the aircraft. So I grab my bags and claw my way off this tin can.
I climbed out of my aisle seat in row 5 and moved down the aisle. As I passed the second row of first class I can finally see the exit and then shit hits the fan a second time. By the way, my dog has awful gas today, so I mean that line very literally.
It was then that the captain comes back on the intercom and instructs all remaining passengers to stay where they are because the delay may not be happening. We all stand around the aisle in a bumper to bumper line of humans waiting to get notified as to if we have to actually get off this flight and park our asses for two hours or if we can sit the hell back down. Well long story long, the flight is delayed and we all have to un-board the plane and twiddle our thumbs for hours on end while inhaling Jax’s stench. I’d like to ask everyone to send up a quick prayer that I actually make it to Palm Beach before I reach retirement age.