I just flew back from the corporate home office and my arms are really tired. No, that’s not a really bad joke. Well, actually, it is a really bad joke, but I’m not making the joke. My arms really are tired. Yesterday was a day of minor wind delays. Not major delays or cancellations, just minor delays. But that made it a good day to try and jump on an earlier flight that had been delayed, in anticipation of my regularly scheduled flight also being delayed. I was able to pull this off on the first leg of my journey, but the connection…well, the guy was being a schmuck, so I had to wait.

The thing is, I was running around airports, particularly the ever-lovin’ hub in Philadelphia, with my one stuffed carry-on in hand, checking flight status on the good old iPhone. That bag started getting a little heavy, and thus…tired arms.

Anyway, all that running raises in my mind a question. Maybe you have an answer, dear reader, maybe not. But here it is – why do the old ladies always step in front of me in tight squeezes so I am forced to cut my speed to a quarter of what I desire it to be. And I’m not talking about spry old ladies in their big hats and Hawaiian shirts. I’m talking about those spindle legged old crones with Santa bellies, wobbling between a cane and a rolling suitcase that no airline is going to let her carry on. I mean, suck it up and pay the fee and stop reminiscing about two-seater biplane rides. I don’t want to be standing behind your argument with the flight attendant with the “I never heard of such a thing” and “this is the last time I fly this airline” nonsense. Let’s face you nasty old social security disability biddy, this is probably the last time you fly any airline, anywhere. Period.