I’M stuck here in an airport down south.
What started as a promising — and to borrow Ynoc’s favorite adjective — exciting thing for all of us somehow spiraled into chaos. And no, this isn’t about the 2026 plans we’re all hyped about. Those are still safe, alive, and behaving — unlike my flight.
Apparently, the universe thought it’d be funny to strand me in this airport like an abandoned suitcase.
The flight did a full drama arc — delayed, canceled, and finally rescheduled for fourteen hours later. A trilogy no one asked for.
Fourteen hours. That’s not a delay — that’s an unsolicited internship in airport survival, complete with fluorescent lights and seats designed for emotional resilience.
I could have called a friend or colleague, but at that hour, my ringtone would’ve been classified as a public disturbance. I’ve reached an age where I respect people’s sleep — mostly because I treasure my own like family heirloom china.
The young Mae — the one who wore stilettos like battle gear and believed the universe should align with her calendar — would have insisted. She would have marched to the counter armed with righteous indignation and eyebrows drawn sharp enough to file complaints.
Well… not at once. I delivered a polite but pointed monologue to the airline staff, equally firm and frustrated. But midway through, I realized this poor girl didn’t manifest the mechanical issue. She didn’t whisper to the pilot, “Let’s spice it up.”
So, I exhaled — maturely. Like someone who now uses lotion labeled “anti-stress.”
Then I decided: if I’m stuck, I might as well maximize the perks I’ve been paying for since the Jurassic period.
I walked myself into the lounge — not credit-card flexing, just quietly enjoying the benefits of a premium plan.
Inside, I settled like a seasoned traveler claiming territory. I had congee, pan de sal, and coffee. I charged my laptop and battery pack. Not only that, but I edited my article for Friday. I watched a movie, hopped to a series, drafted this article, and unofficially converted the lounge into my studio condo — minus the rent.
Somewhere in between the movie, the series, and pretending to work, I ended up chatting with passengers and airline staff — and asking the airport police for directions three times. My internal compass needs a performance review.
At one point, the police officer told me, “Ma’am, all things happen for a reason.”
Normally, my eyebrow would have arched in gentle skepticism… except my eyebrows are practically optional accessories. I draw them every morning like I’m taking a licensure exam — hoping for symmetry, praying for visibility. Even my facial expressions are now minimalist.
So instead of an eyebrow raise, I offered a soft, philosophical nod.
Strangely, I agreed with her. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the congee, or the universe rolling its eyes at me again, thinking, “She still didn’t get it?”
Because if this whole flight drama — the delay, the cancellation, and the 14-hour rebooking — didn’t happen, I wouldn’t have finished editing my column. I wouldn’t have met people whose paths briefly crossed mine over warm coffee and collective inconvenience. And I wouldn’t have slowed down long enough to realize how silly it was to be mad at something I couldn’t change.
Occasionally, the universe forces a pause, not out of spite, but to remind us to sit down, breathe, and let things settle — the same way coffee tastes better when you stop gulping it too fast.
As Scarlett O’Hara once said — with far more drama than the situation I was in — “After all… tomorrow is another day.”
And the next day, in a plot twist worthy of its episode, the new plane actually arrived. I finally got home — caffeinated, under-slept, and running on more doses of winks than I’m willing to admit.
Still brewing thoughts — no sugarcoating, just stories steeped in truth.
