In a few scant hours my flight leaves for my fraternity’s national convention. I hate flying. I hate it so much. I am already packed, yes, but here are the things I’ve done tonight just to make sure I don’t get ejected from the terminal:

  • placed masking tape over the ends of all the spare batteries I’m carrying for my camera
  • verified on the TSA’s website that I can carry spare batteries in the first place
  • researched whether it’s OK to wear my Dr. Scholl’s onto the plane. I can’t.
  • identified which slip-on shoes I’ll wear tomorrow
  • gone through a weeding process to pick a t-shirt that can in no way be construed as creepy or threatening in case someone at security hasn’t had their morning coffee when I get there
  • identified which of my middle-tier dress socks will be most suitable for showing off to everyone in the airport
  • packed and repacked so that the baggage checkers hopefully won’t have to utterly destroy the packing job I’ve done on my clothes the way they did two years ago
  • learned that one of my TSA-approved baggage locks doesn’t work at all
  • faced that it is pointless to try to keep my dress shirts wrinkle-free since they will simply be wadded up and shoved back in by security anyway
  • researched whether I can take my camera in carry-on (I can)
  • tried on pairs of jeans until I found one that didn’t need a belt
  • gone through my underwear to find a pair I don’t mind someone else seeing should I get pulled aside
  • learned I’ll have to pay $50 at check-in for my baggage
  • been advised that I shouldn’t bother using the luggage lock that does work, even though it’s TSA-approved.

In the happy news column, the hotel is letting me do early check-in, which is good since I plan to get there and immediately find out where there’s a bar. I don’t really care that it will be 11am.