I have been in this airport since 7:11 a.m. It is now 5:24 p.m.
The boundaries of social convention have been broken for my fellow weary passengers. Unlikely groups have begun to form. It all seems so very Lord of the Flies.
As I write, Miss Rodeo America is huddled with a dreary business woman and a white-haired grandmotherly figure. Never has this much glitter, polyester and Bengay coexisted, of that I am certain.
Two female travel companions in wind-suits have formed an unlikely kinship with an adolescent Chinese boy and his guitar. He hopes to study music at Berkley and become a country music sensation. Surely a jam session will break out at any moment.
My original flight, set to leave at 10:42 a.m., has been pushed back to 7:00 p.m.
Of course they couldn't have put it that simply. No, instead they have chosen the more tedious method of slowly setting our departure time back in increments of ten... 5:00, no 5:10, no 5:20... It is my belief that we are simply the test rats for this new form of military torture. It is also my belief that the forming of government conspiracy theories is probably the first sign that I am losing my mind.
I have been on the plane and then off the plane.
I have been to customer service.
I have hung my head in defeat as I made the shameful trek back from customer service.
I have been corralled from gate B47 to B54 to B58 to B54... wait where am I now?
And now, I wait.