By now, one might assume that flying has become as second-nature to people as ordering a coffee or complaining about slow Wi-Fi. And yet, somehow, somehow, every flight boarding gate seems to unleash a gaggle of dazed adults who act like they’ve never seen the inside of an aircraft—or a boarding pass—before.
I’m talking about those people. The ones who hold up the line because they don’t know their seat number. Who stop mid-aisle, clutching their carry-on like it’s a flotation device, blinking at the row numbers like they’re ancient runes. And I just have to ask:
How the hell did you lose your seat assignment between the gate and the plane?
It’s ten metres, tops. Maybe fifteen if you took a detour to snap a selfie or aggressively wedge your emotional support latte into the cup holder of your roller bag. You had one job, Mary. ONE. JOB.
It’s not complicated. This isn’t a Sudoku puzzle. This isn’t assembling IKEA furniture with instructions in Swedish. This is “12A.” That’s your entire mission. Know where your ass goes for the next three to five hours.
I can’t help but channel my inner Sigourney Weaver in Galaxy Quest:
“I have one job on this ship. It’s stupid, but I’m going to do it.”
Yes, exactly. And your job, Mary, is knowing your bloody seat.
This isn’t preschool circle time where we let you wander around until you find a spot that feels spiritually aligned. You don’t get to look around like “oh I’ll just sit here” and then act shocked when someone taps your shoulder with the tone of a parent who knows you’ve eaten the last cookie and lied about it.
You’re boarding an aircraft, not exploring a choose-your-own-adventure IKEA showroom.
And let’s talk about consequences: when you clog up the aisle, everyone else is stuck behind you like sad little sardines, overheating, over-it, and silently plotting your downfall. That’s minutes shaved off our precious lives we’re never getting back. All because you couldn’t be bothered to check the app, the email, the printed slip, or the gate agent who just told you your seat.
So here’s the solution, and I say this with love:
Get. Your. Shit. Together.
Pull up the app. Take a screenshot. Hell, have your seat number pinned to your shirt like a note from your kindergarten teacher to your mum.
“Hi! I’m in 23B today. Please help me find my way!”
Because if you’re going to act lost, you might as well look the part.
Let’s all reclaim those precious pre-takeoff minutes and leave the chaos to the luggage carousel where it belongs.
Because real talk? Your 5PM flight is now 75 minutes late, not because of weather, or maintenance, or a rare celestial event—it’s because every Mary on the umpteen flights before yours held up boarding by three precious minutes each. And time adds up, honey. You’re not just inconveniencing the people behind you—you’re slow-roasting the whole damn travel day like a soggy in-flight chicken wrap.
And if I wanted to be delayed by clueless wanderers, I’d go back to dating. Barf.