From 10/9/09

I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it just a little bit: sprinting through the ATL airport to catch my connecting flight, scheduled to depart in only minutes. Knowing that people were looking at me, feeling artificially important. I can admit it because I so rarely do anything that makes me actually important, therefore I can afford to indulge my narcissism on occasion.

Anyway, it wasn't just that I felt eyes on me; it was the thrill of not knowing for sure that I'd make it. It was the brilliant feeling of forcing my legs to keep carrying me (and my backpack, and my prescribed neck pillow- which, by the way, was so worth it) even though they told me they were done. It was the adrenaline that built as I first started my trek 1000 feet to the B terminal, the decision to hoof it instead of waiting for a tram. The real-life video game appeal of dodging other travelers as I careened through the airport, praying I wouldn't trip over my own feet- which almost happened a few times, let me tell you.

It was the gradual release of anxiety as I began to count down the B gates, from somewhere in the twenties down to two as I continuously weighed those numbers against the few precious remaining minutes before my flight would leave me behind without so much as a backward glance.

Then, finally, at the gate, the quiet, unannounced glory of "I win." The singular knowing, as I boarded the almost-full plane, red-faced, out-of-breath, that I had worked harder for my place than anyone else.

By the way, ATL is a hot, sticky place in October.