why is it always worse flying back from the east coast?

I arrive at the airport just after 7:00 pm for an 8:10 departure. Having gotten through security, I began rearranging my suitcase and moving certain items into a duffel bag so that my overstuffed carry-on could actually be stuffed into the overhead bin. I am just about to check to see if JFK had free wifi and grab dinner when I discover that my laptop has reached a temperature of approximately 90 degrees, on failing to standby, because I had stuffed it hastily into its case when I got the call that my airport transportation had arrived downstairs, and forgot to shut down some files that were on the network. I spend over twenty minutes trying in every way to shut down Excel and Word so I could get my computer to standby or shut down.

By the time I finish, I realize I only have ten minutes until boarding. I try to visit the ladies’ room but see a dozen or so women in line, so I decide to delay and try to find the fastest food option so I won’t be stuck on a cross-continental flight with nothing to eat when they run out of meatless sandwiches for sale on board. When I am served my two slices of Famiglia pizza, they tell me they are out of boxes.

Now I am really late, so I check the gate on my printed boarding pass, the corner slowly soaking up pizza oil, and run towards gate 22. Apparently, gates 19-24 are a shuttle ride away, so I hurry out to 20 degrees for the shuttle without putting on my coat. I arrive at gate 22 to discover that my flight is no longer at gate 22, and I realize I am a complete idiot for not taking the time to check a screen. I ask an agent at one of the desks to call gate 5 and tell them I am on my way. By the time I am back at the main gates (all the while carrying dripping pizza on a paper plate, passing Famiglia pizza on my way like a confused idiot, now wearing my coat, dragging my unreasonably heavy carry-on) they are calling the final boarding call for my flight, and telling the ‘final passenger’ they must arrive now. I am running as hard as I possibly can, sweating under thick layers of wool and wheezing, just in time to hand the agent my pizza-oil-soaked boarding pass, which he scans. Whew.

Forty minutes later, we are still taxiing on the runway, and are informed that we have conflicted with international departure rush hour, and are 40^th in line to take off. I call eight of my friends to chat and reach none of them, but successfully add last names to every contact in my mobile phone contacts. We depart 90 min late.