Baggage Claim: Where Dignity Goes to Die
Airports are already awkward — fluorescent lighting, sad little snack kiosks, and that faint smell of carpet shampoo and jet fuel. Add in a girl with a hyperactive imagination and zero impulse control, and you’ve got me at the luggage carousel, mentally planning my wedding to a Boston accent I’d only heard over the phone. No picture, just a vague description: “dark hair, good shape, you’ll know him.” Right. Because every stranger at a small-town airport isn’t rocking the same jeans-and-T-shirt starter pack.
So I zeroed in on him — curly hair, muscles in a white tee, standing casually by the baggage belt like he was auditioning for Marlboro Man: The Urban Edition. He stared at me, I stared at him, and obviously my brain went: nailed it. I marched right over, wrapped him in a big “Welcome to Wisconsin” hug, and plopped us down for a heart-to-heart while “his” luggage circled the carousel. Spoiler: fifteen minutes in, I was still talking. And talking. And talking.
We did the polite chitchat, back and forth, and my heart did the whole hummingbird flutter. In my head, he was already sweeping me off my feet, flying me to Boston and whisking me off to some imaginary beach. I could practically feel my toes sinking into warm sand while he whispered about Fenway Park or clam chowder or … whatever Bostonians whisper. Never mind that I wasn’t sure Boston even had beach — my brain packed a bikini, a paperback, and a happily-ever-after anyway. All the daydreaming I’d done over over our phone calls? Suddenly, it felt like my fantasies were boarding the same flight and strutting straight toward reality. Spoiler: reality wasn’t even holding a boarding pass.
So there we sat — me, looking pretty damn good in my twenties (wish I knew that then) glow, him smiling along — while behind us a lone businesswoman parked herself with her briefcase. She was the kind of woman who looked like she only laughed at mergers, not mortals. But as I kept talking, I noticed things weren’t adding up. He wasn’t connecting. Something clicked, and I blurted: “Your not Davy who’s still in the Navy, are you? You’re not from Boston?” That’s when the businesswoman lost it — snorting, laughing, practically choking —because she’d apparently been front-row for my entire rom-com audition.
Turns out my “Boston Navy dreamboat” was actually a wrestler in town for some smack-down. And when I asked him why he pretended to be Navy Davy, he deadpanned, “I wanted to be Davy.” Under normal circumstances, that cheesy line might’ve worked. But with Ms. Snortzilla still wheezing behind me, I couldn’t even fall for it.
The heat rushed to my cheeks so fast I’m pretty sure TSA could’ve flagged me as a walking flare gun. I didn’t so much stand up as I oozed away — like a mortified slug leaving a shiny trail of shame across the vinyl airport floor. Overhead, the intercom mercifully announced the real Boston flight arriving, which doubled as my cue to escape from Mr. Not-Navy Davy, AKA some kind of discount wrestling circuit’s leading man.
And sure enough, through that side door came the actual Navy Davy — shorter, stockier, ridiculously handsome, and flashing those pearly whites like he hadn’t just been replaced in my imagination by a stranger who’s stage name could be Mr. Thunder, or Lightening Rod or I got it … THE IMPOSTER. “Hey, Tiffany, is that you? It’s me, Davy.” At that point, all I could do was point to the carousel like a bitter tour guide and mutter, “Grab your bag.” No Hug. No Welcome to Wisconsin. We hit the parking lot, and I don’t think I said more than two words the entire drive home.
Because really — what could I say? “Hi, I just made out with your doppelganger in my head and planned our Boston beach wedding while a businesswoman heckled me with nasal snorts”? No. Some things you bury deep, right next to your bad haircuts and mini-marriages. This little airport debacle took place in that glorious gap between Marriage #1 and Marriage #2 — back when I still thought the universe was sending me signs, instead of just men who shared T-shirt sizes. That day I learned three important lessons: when your friend wants you to pick up their Navy buddy form the airport - get a picture, never trust fluorescent lighting, and never, ever hug a man at baggage claim until you’ve confirmed his boarding pass.
