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Over Spring Break, I was in LAX, and everything was good, I was feeling like 2009 Miley Cyrus, it was great. All of a sudden, though, I started feeling really on edge. Almost panicked. “Are you alright?” my friend asked. “You look like you actually need one of the Xanax I take to fly.” I turned down her offer, but I sure wished I hadn’t when I realized what was wrong.
“They don’t even have Ted Drewes vending machines,” I mumbled. I felt almost sick thinking about the socialist deprivation these poor Californians were living under. “Yeah man,” said one of my friends. “Most airports don’t. Also, Jesus Christ, are you alright?” By this point, cold sweat was pouring down my whole body. “Most airports don’t?” I asked. “Yeah. Like only the St. Louis airport. Because it’s, like, a St. Louis thing.”
That was the last straw. Suddenly I lived in a world where most people couldn’t just pass the time before a flight looking at a jolly man staring at a cup of ice cream. Most people probably can’t get a freezer-burned frozen custard from a yellow vending machine with a little suction crane, even when they’re not at the airport. What an ignorant, privileged life I had been leading.
Desperate to clear my head, I stumbled into every room around LAX called something like “Serenity Suite.” Turns out they were all for Muslims praying or mothers nursing their babies. As I sat taking calming breaths on the lactation bench, I realized that maybe not everyone in the world needed a vending machine decorated with a smiling man in a tight t-shirt tucked into cargo shorts. Perspective: it’s not that hard, people.
