Coming in from Mexico to DFW, we have disembarked, deplaned and so forth, and everyone walks fast and hard towards Customs. I stay to the right, hugging the wall of these long, wide hallways so folks can sprint past me with ease. These guys don’t seem frantic to get to another flight; they’re just long-legged and fast-paced. Bless their hearts.

I do see, of course, that they’re onto something – those who continue to trot even while on the 5 moving sidewalks along our path. They’re doubling their speed and covering so much ground. My mind starts churning. Maybe sprinting for the heck of it is the way to go! Great exercise, and so forth. I decide I’ll do just that. It’s efficient and good for you. Who could ask for more.

So, with great determination, I set my jaw and switch gears. My little rolling carryon and I power forth, joining them in the left lane. “Scuze me, scuze me” I yelp with great conviction as we pass the dang slowpokes on the right. I give the fools the side-eye. I’m puffed up now. Joining the fast track makes me feel so included.

We arrive at Customs. Full of p*** and vinegar, I rush past folks to get up to Global Entry only to be still for the camera. Sighing with exasperation at the interruption to my newly established whirlwind pace, I proceed to the agent’s desk, accepting with a nod the serious “Welcome to the U.S.” from the officer, and off I go, all in a matter of one minute.

Then, demanding my way up to baggage claim, (this adrenaline has given me a newfound, somewhat hauty attitude) I start elbowing people aside as I grab my suitcase and run to the next stop. Outta my way, you lazy bums. At this point I’ve exerted myself too much. I’ve built up a sweat, my mouth is dry, there’s a headache developing, and nausea sets in. But I forge ahead unfettered.

Continuing my ultra-rapid stride, I pass off my large bag to be rechecked to Charleston, sliding it on its wheels like a bowling ball towards the young man at the conveyor belt. “It’s a strike!” I yell out with glee! Without a pause in my gait, I make my way quickly through Security to once again prove that I’m a person of character, as determined by what’s in my carryon and on my person. Having accomplished this, I’m home free. Katie, bar the door! Heading full speed ahead towards the gate, (my rolling carryon huffing and puffing behind me) we board the plane for the last leg home.

Once seated, I fasten my seatbelt, take a deep breath, and realize I’m tight as a drum from all this folderol. Wound up, I am: sweating profusely, hair a-shambles, shoes untied, shoulders hard as a rock, snarky, snarly, and overall grossed out about… everything. I push my exhausted little carryon into place under the seat in front of me. I believe I hear her breathe a sigh of relief. To heck with speed, I say to her. Next time, I plan to simply stay in the right lane. For me, it certainly makes for a more pleasant journey!  😘

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