I Came to See the World, Not Your Crusty Bare Feet: A Middle-Aged Woman’s Guide to Airport Rage
Why is everyone barefoot, half-naked, and incapable of using a trash can?
Let me make one thing abundantly clear: I did not cash in my SkyMiles, brave the TSA cavity search, or skip my hormone-balancing tea just to be assaulted by some grown man’s yellowing, callus-crusted feet resting on top of an airport seat like he’s in his own private yurt. No. Absolutely not. I came to see the Eiffel Tower. The Colosseum. Maybe the Northern Lights if I can swing it. I did not come to see your unclipped, talon-like toenails catching the glint of the fluorescent Cinnabon lights.
Why, dear God, is everyone barefoot, half-naked, and flinging trash with the casual arrogance of Roman emperors? And why—WHY—do they all end up near me?
The Descent Into Airport Purgatory
You arrive at the airport full of hope. You are a woman of the world. You have dreams, a cute passport holder, and a Pinterest board full of linen travel outfits you will never wear because real airports require sweat-wicking leggings and the emotional stamina of a Navy SEAL.
You think it’s going to be fine. You’ve packed healthy snacks. You’ve pre-downloaded your podcasts. You’ve even charged your Kindle. But you didn’t account for Bluetooth Speaker Bro in boarding group C, who has decided the entire terminal needs to hear his curated playlist of Top 40 songs from 2012. You know the guy. Usually wearing slides and a hat with the word “VIBES” on it. He sets his speaker down like he’s DJing at Coachella, not Gate B22.
And God forbid you ask him to turn it down.
“Chill, Karen,” he’ll say, even though your name is not Karen and you are barely hanging on to your will to live.
TSA: Theatre of Sadness and Latex Gloves
And oh, the TSA checkpoint. A slow-moving conga line of despair. A place where all dignity goes to die in a bin with your belt, your shoes, and that embarrassing protein bar you packed for "fuel."
You get barked at like a criminal for forgetting to remove your laptop. You are strip-searched for the crime of wearing an underwire bra. Meanwhile, a guy with three water bottles and a mysterious metal rod just strolls through like he owns the joint.
TSA PreCheck? That’s adorable. I have it. You know what I still get? Randomized screening. You know who never gets pulled aside? That guy in cargo shorts and a fedora who looks like he smuggles reptiles for fun.
Gate Lice: The Herd That Waits for Nothing
Why—why—are the gate lice already lined up when we’re still 45 minutes out from boarding? These are people who heard "we will begin boarding by groups" and took it as a personal challenge to assert dominance. They stand there with dead eyes and carry-ons the size of livestock crates, ready to clog the jet bridge like it’s Black Friday at a mattress sale.
These people are not flying. These people are fleeing.
And it doesn’t matter that you, a rational, seasoned adult woman with an assigned seat, are trying to sit and enjoy your overpriced yogurt parfait (which cost more than your first car, by the way). You’ll be trampled anyway—by a stampede of panicked amateur travelers who think if they don't board immediately, they’ll have to flap their own arms and fly.
Toddlers Doing Wind Sprints and Other Tiny Terrorists
Now, I love children. I do. I’ve raised children. But the airport is not a Chuck E. Cheese. Why is your toddler running suicidally toward the escalator while you sip a latte and read a Colleen Hoover novel like this is a beach vacation?
They’re not walking. They’re sprinting. Dodging legs like they’re training for the baby Olympics. One of them body-checked me so hard I dropped my KIND bar, which then rolled under the seat of a man eating egg salad with his hands. You think I made that up? I wish I did. I see it every time I close my eyes.
And there’s always that one rogue child in the terminal screaming “MOMMMMMY!” even though Mommy is four feet away and not, in fact, dead. She’s on TikTok. Filming a dance.
The Shoeless Menace
Let’s circle back to the main offender: barefoot people. It’s not just one or two. It’s an epidemic. Like a virus passed down from one inconsiderate bro to another. They remove their shoes, then their socks, and suddenly they’re full-on airplane feral. Propped-up hooves on the tray table. Using the armrest as a stretching bar. Doing toe yoga mid-flight.
I saw one man crack his toes during descent like he was prepping for ballet class. I gagged so hard I saw my own past lives.
And don’t even get me started on the ones who walk into the airplane bathroom barefoot. That is not water on that floor. That is biological warfare. And now you’re tracking it back to your seat where I will be forced to breathe the same air as your Foot Locker reject energy.
Overpriced Yogurt and Emotional Bankruptcy
Why is the only thing available to eat at 6 a.m. a $17 Greek yogurt parfait with one solitary blueberry and a promise of cultural enlightenment? And who set these prices? Jeff Bezos?
You can’t bring a banana through TSA without being accused of smuggling potassium, but you can buy a sad croissant wrapped in cling film from 2009 for the price of a kidney.
Meanwhile, you’re emotionally bankrupt, financially unstable, and still not boarding because the gate agent just announced a mechanical issue, which is airline speak for “we forgot to check if the wings are attached.”
You’re not even mad anymore. You’re just vibrating at the frequency of a fax machine.
And Yet… (The Nuanced Part That Hurts)
Now here’s the twist: I know I’m part of the problem.
I bring emotional support snacks, a neck pillow the size of a toddler, and a podcast called “Murder & Mascara” because I need soothing. I sigh dramatically when someone brings a tuna sandwich on board. I give the side-eye of doom when a teenager dares to recline.
I’m not immune to airport madness. I am infected by it.
Because here’s the complicated truth: We’re all just trying to escape something.
Some people are flying to funerals. Some are finally taking their first vacation in ten years. Some just got dumped. Some are chasing dreams. Some are running from their exes. Most of us are just tired. Cranky. Overstimulated. Desperate for a break and hoping the overpriced yogurt and tiny bag of Delta cookies will provide emotional salvation.
And so… maybe the guy with the bare feet isn’t the villain. Maybe he’s just numb. Literally and metaphorically.
Maybe the toddler is just excited. Maybe Bluetooth Bro is terrified of silence. Maybe gate lice are just people who have never known peace.
Maybe, just maybe, we’re all gross and irritating and doing our best in an airport-shaped hellscape where time, space, and logic no longer apply.
Final Boarding Call
So no, I didn’t come to see your crusty feet or hear your Spotify playlist or dodge your airborne child. I came to see the world. To feel small under a big sky. To eat too much bread in a new country and cry at museums and take blurry pictures from the window seat.
But to get there, I have to wade through all of this. And so do you. So maybe we all need a little more patience… and socks.
And trash cans. For the love of all that is holy—USE THE TRASH CAN.