By Deborah J. Rebolloso

From departure drop-off to arrival survival, airports provide stiff competition to big-ticket flicks for eye-opening, ear-splitting, heart-pounding drama. For the pittance price of admission, you’re guaranteed a thrill-packed, “Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy night,” run for your money.

Gone are those carefree days when one merely showed up, flashed a ticket, and boarded the plane. Those were gentler times, when revolvers and other villainous weaponry wasn’t confiscated, much less ChapStick or bitty nail nippers.

The first stop on your adventure is the interminable line at the Baggage Check area, Basic Training for the non-stop queuing to follow. Here you’ll encounter an astonishing array of frozen faces and glazed-over eyes, rivaling the relaxation quotient of root canal patients.

As you snake back and forth between the ropes, take a good look at your fellow snakes. You’ll be spending the better part of the day (or night) packed in the same can. If troubled by any aspect of their appearance, deportment, or aroma at this early juncture, why not abandon your plans and add yourself to another line featuring more tolerable traveling companions?

Once your luggage has been dispatched (hopefully matching your destination), join your fellow detainees at the security lineup, where you’re analyzed for hidden dangers. If the scanner remains mute, personnel can rest assured that no Uzis lurk in your socks.

Go figure! Gel shoe inserts have been added to the list of on-board Prohibited Items. Yet, gel-laden bras pass security with nary a glitch. Apparently, squishy underwear poses no threat, whereas squishy shoes bode ill.

After earning a passing grade, proceed to your assigned gate (invariably farthest from security), attempt to locate a seat, and patiently await “boarding instructions” (euphemism for yet another lineup). Here you’re allowed to purchase a beverage, at this point lacking access to labs for nefarious arms-building purposes.

Comfortably ensconced in your chosen seat (a preview of coming attractions), relax and read, eat, sleep, or watch the scene changes, while simultaneously keeping your eyes glued to your stuff, ever on the alert for attempted kilo drops.

A recent gate wait featured a captivating floor show, distracting us from the pandemonium of milling throngs and static-laden announcements.

1. A chic chick toted her possessions in a trendy (soiled, no less) pillowcase.

2. Two dudes pranced about in miniskirts. If they weren’t flitting off to Scotland via Albuquerque for a Highland Fling, they had some serious explaining to do.

3. An amazing assortment of wiggling, shrieking toddlers appeared to be primed with Pop-Tarts, ‘cause they were poppin’ long before takeoff.

Happily wrapped in a Dramamine-induced semi-coma, I remained insulated against the worst of the lunacy.

After boarding, locating a cushy center seat, and obediently storing all carry-on baggage in the overhead compartment, I shot furtive glances at the scraggly line of passengers still searching for a place to store their backsides. As feared, all potential seatmates were doused in scent, generating obnoxious nose and throat noises, or sporting major body overhang.

When the stampede dust finally settled, all hopes for a joyride faded as I found myself cozily surrounded by seat kickers, sleep droolers, bronchial coughers, and high-decibel yakkers.

Rivaling Maria Callas, an infant hit High C during takeoff and held the note for the duration. Another charming tot gazed out the window and squealed, “Mommy, I see a real plane!” So, what, pray tell, are we strapped into (“pray” being the operative word)?

Safely (s)trapped in a pint-sized compartment boasting a scenic seat-back view, one can’t help noticing that the plane is fitted with all the comforts of home, albeit in miniature.

For your reading pleasure, a touch of a button bathes you in a laser beam of light.

To compensate for being forced to breathe stuffy air until cruising at 10,000 feet, a nozzle blasts exhalations from fellow passengers onto the top of your head.

Peewee pillows provide cushioned comfort for the 6″ x 3″ rectangle between your ears, as you recline at a modest 45-degree angle so as not to land on the tray table behind you.

Far be it from me to yammer about my generous 15″ seat width, but my right arm proved to be securely wedged against Luv’s left, leaving little maneuverability. I proposed what seemed a reasonable solution. “Would you kindly store your arm in the overhead compartment?”

He would have none of it, selfishly claiming that all bins were full. “Okay,” I hissed, “how about spilling into the aisle a tad? I’m writing a column about the travails of travel, and if you refuse to cooperate, instead of Chicago, you’ll find yourself landing in deep doo.”

Speaking of doo, here’s a clever strategy for avoiding lengthy loo lines. Devour scads of complimentary salt-laden snacks. The resulting body bloat negates need for frequent wees.

While we’re on the subject of the complimentary gourmet snacks, a degree in Breaking and Entering would come in handy for breaching the package seals, what with having been forced to abandon all hatchets at security.

If you’re unfortunate enough to require a trip to one of the casket-sized cans, prepare for extended wait time while those ahead of you bathe in the Lilliputian sink, brush and floss, execute total make-overs, and evacuate all food and drink consumed in the preceding 48 hours.

Lavatory-bound and in need of assistance? A help button features an attendant grasping a beverage. One can only hope at this point that the airline’s rescue beverage of choice is a snifter of scotch.

As we neared the end of our thrill-packed ride, a perky flight attendant cavorted down the aisle dragging a fully-loaded hefty bag. “Trash?” she queried. “No, but thanks for offering. I have sufficient,” I beamed.

Suddenly, the pilot’s voice alerted us that our destination was in sight. “Touching” down with a series of hair-raising plonks and thunks, he exceeded our “bumpy night” expectations.

What a relief to be rescued from a daymare featuring me bobbing in the ocean clutching my seat bottom (pulling double-duty as a flotation device), alive but salty-snack bloated beyond recognition.

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Deborah J. Rebolloso writes monthly humor columns for http://healyourselftalk.com/magazine (Humour) and http://alongstoryshort.homestead.com (Humor Me!). Her website is www.DebRebollosohumorme.com. You can reach Deborah at debreb@cox.net.