If I had a nickel for each of my airport screw-ups…

The thing is, I don’t think I’m an incompetent adult. I’ve managed to get jobs, live abroad, pay taxes, remember birthdays etc. But I am biologically incapable of dealing with airports. Specifically with budget airline flights. If I’m not late, there will be an issue with my boarding pass, security, luggage, gate.

And thusly I find myself, once again, with five extra hours at London Stansted and 100 fewer GBP in my bank account. I didn’t even wince at the news from the Ryanair man. “Terribly sorry miss, I’m afraid check-in for that flight is closed now. You know you’re meant to arrive a full hour before any international flight?” Yes sir, I do know. Please take my money and refrain from humiliating me any further. Meanwhile a pregnant woman behind me wept to someone on the phone about “$!&#ing ridiculous policies.” A 99-year-old man next to me shook an enraged fist at another clerk about a £50 late-check-in fee. Three blonde tweens on my left gave collective sass to a stewardess about the size of their carry-ons.

“Surrender, comrades!” I told them all, telepathically. Abandon hope for justice or customer service! Take cold comfort in the certainty of Sisyphean chaos!

I floated through the snaking security line. Take off the sweater I’ve never been asked to remove at any other airport? No problem. Empty my bag of all contents to prove that my water bottle was, in fact, empty? Sure thing. Send my dry deodorant through the scanner again? You got it. Thank you sir, have a wonderful day.

I’ve arrived to the gate purgatory lounge. No complaints here. Just an opportunity to stop and smell the wafts of duty free whiskey and perfume samples. Time to sit back, relax, and read my book about Generation Z.

There’s just one small problem. There is a girl sitting next to me. Her left hand is twirling a lock of platinum hair into her mouth while her right thumb flicks her phone screen faster than she could scratch a foil lottery ticket. Her volume is maxed and it sounds like a radio dial being spun, minus the white noise between stations. Shakira — laughter — club beats — girl talking — car engine — crowd roar — bottles clinking — girls wooping — Russian (or other Slavic language) — electric guitar. I put in my headphones, hoping the Goldberg Variations would return me to my Zen state. But the schizo-track is too loud.

It’s been at least 15 minutes of non-stop flicking and I’ve just given her a look. Not her, precisely, but her phone. The same wide-eyed look you give to someone’s barking dog at the post office. The look said: “Would you be so kind as to shut up your device please?” But the hair-eating screen zombie has zero damns to give. I could ask her directly to turn her volume down, but this is England after all. So I’ve resorted to passive-aggressive blogging.

I can see she is on Instagram, but that’s about it. Never have Grams been more Instant than when Screen Zombie is browsing. It would be easier to make out icons on a spinning Vegas slot machine. I have too many questions. Seriously? Why?? How long can you possibly do that? What is wrong with you? When are you leaving?

I’ve lost interest in my Generation Z book. I’m not in the mood to psychoanalyze the Mobile Natives. They suck. I feel my shoulders hunching and forehead wrinkling. Not even 30 years old and I’m already cynical about Kids These Days.