'I'm convinced airport rules are a social experiment and I no longer consent.'

There's something about airports that turn perfectly competent, functioning adults into anxious, malfunctioning goblins.

It's like the second you step into Departures, time ceases to exist, basic manners are suspended, and no one — not even the employees, at times — has any idea what's going on.

You forget how to walk at a normal pace. You forget how to form a line. You forget how to hydrate. Honestly, if aliens ever wanted to test the limits of human logic, they should just observe us during the boarding process of a Jetstar flight.

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And with the news that Americans no longer need to remove their shoes at security checkpoints, I have questions. Like: what other airport rules are just complete and utter lies? 

Honestly, airport rituals feel less like safety protocol and more like a psychological study to see how much chaos we'll put up with before someone cracks and tries to re-pack their suitcase on the floor in front of 400 strangers. (It's me. I'm someone.)

I am fully convinced that the airport is a lawless, chaotic circus and I hereby refuse to further engage in any of the following performances:

The pressure to eat like a functioning adult.  

There is no such thing as "normal eating" at an airport. In my opinion, once you're past security, time stops, nutrition is irrelevant and shame no longer exists.

It's a scientific fact* that calories don't count in Terminal 2. Fibre? Never met her. That's why I order a cheeseburger and champagne before every flight — even if it's 8am — without blinking.

It costs $46. It hurts my stomach. And I'll do it every time. Because this isn't about logic. It's about performative self-care in its purest form.

*No, I will not be accepting peer-reviewed studies at this time.

The liquid limbo.

I just want my skin barrier to survive the flight. Image: Getty.

If I had a dollar for every time I've tossed a perfectly good moisturiser into an airport bin, I could afford to check my luggage. Or at least I could afford to replace said binned product.

Why 100ml? Why the tiny zip-lock bag? Why the sense of shame as you present your skincare like someone confessing to a crime? I am not smuggling contraband — I am simply trying to retain a functioning skin barrier at 35,000 feet.

The emotional breakdown at gate 37A. 

I have cried at more airport gates than at all of my breakups combined. Something about the fluorescent lighting and soft pretzel scent just… unravels me.

One minute I'm fine and scrolling TikTok, the next I'm full-blown sobbing in front of a NewsLink because my flight is delayed and my headphones are tangled in a way that feels like a personal attack on my character.

I don't know who I am anymore. I just know I'm emotionally unravelling next to a man eating tuna, and no one is coming to save me.

The laptop unveiling ceremony.

The sacred ritual of placing your laptop in a tray by itself, like it's being presented to the Queen to be knighted? I'm out.

Every single time, I black out immediately after and spend the rest of the day assuming I've left it behind. For 14 hours, I'm haunted by the image of an airport staffer using it to stream Bridgerton (they're deep into Season 3, I just know it) and downloading suspicious PDFs. 

The boarding group Hunger Games. 

The eternal question: join the queue or stay seated until called? Image: Getty.

For some reason, people start lining up the moment the gate agent breathes near a microphone. Nothing says "relaxing holiday" like elbowing a stranger with a neck pillow for a spot in the jet bridge cattle queue.

There's always that tense moment: Do I stand? Do I sit? Will the overhead bins run out? I don't know the rules. I don't know who I am anymore. 

I just know I need to be… ready.

The duty-free delusion.

I don't need a $200 serum, a Toblerone the length of my leg or a bottle of perfume with top notes of "Crisp Linen and Financial Ruin". And yet — I simply must have them.

I am a shell of myself in a duty-free setting. Overstimulated, under-caffeinated and convinced I need a Swarovski keychain in order to feel something.

The 'how many bags' lie. 

My handbag is technically a laptop case. My canvas tote is technically a pillow. The giant overflowing Zara bag? Technically fashion and therefore part of my outfit. No, I cannot consolidate. No, I will not check anything.

Yes, I am praying no one at the gate calls me out because if they do, I will cry. And I will blame the patriarchy.

The worst part of it all? The chaos doesn't end at the gate. Once you've boarded, the madness really takes flight.

Why is the window seat both the best and worst one? Why do I need to fit my meal, my book, my drink, my elbows and my will to live on one tiny tray table?

Why does a tiny can of Coke taste like a luxury beverage when it's handed to me mid-turbulence in a plastic cup with exactly three ice cubes?

And please explain to me the maths behind reclining seats. If I recline, I'm a monster who hates society. If the person in front of me reclines, I want to write a passive-aggressive note on a napkin and report it to the captain. This isn't etiquette. It's psychological warfare at 35,000 feet.

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Don't get me wrong. 

I love travelling. I love adventure. I love drinking champagne in socks at 7am because a woman in a fancy uniform told me I was allowed to.

I just no longer consent to these random, chaotic, occasionally made-up rules that govern the air travel universe.

Let me keep my belt on. Let me bring full-sized shampoo. Let me eat my cheeseburger in peace — and most importantly, stop pretending the airport isn't a full-blown psychological thriller where the plot twist is that I was the emotional support animal all along.

See you at the gate. I'll be the one crying.

Feature image: Getty.