Confessions of a Dumb Blonde in Terminal C

Listen — I’ve spent most of my adult life proving I’m not the “dumb blonde.”
I’ve got the degrees, the deployments, the career, the spreadsheets.
I’ve walked into rooms full of men in uniform and owned my space like I built the walls myself.

But apparently, the minute I step into an airport, my IQ drops 40 points and my hair gets 30% blonder.

This story starts in Newark. Which, by the way, is an airport designed by someone who hated peace, logic, and signage. I was already lost before I even parked the car.

I parked in “Economy Lot P6,” which sounded perfectly normal until the shuttle driver told me it was “off property.”
I had to take another shuttle to get to the first shuttle that went to the actual airport.
By the time I got to Terminal C, I’d burned 600 calories, lost my boarding pass, and emotionally adopted the driver as my emotional support human.

Then came TSA.

Now, I’m not new to this. I know the drill — laptop out, shoes off, liquids in a bag.
But apparently, I forgot all of it.
I tried to walk through with my shoes, my laptop, my emotional trauma, and a full Starbucks.
The TSA agent looked at me like I had just tried to bring a ferret on the plane.

And then — because God likes to keep me humble — my suitcase got flagged for “suspicious items.”
They pulled it aside, unzipped it, and right on top was… a bright pink curling iron and a bag of peanut M&Ms.
Terror level: pastel.

Once I survived security, I thought I was home free.
Except my gate changed three times.
I walked 4 miles in circles like a confused Roomba with a carry-on.

By the time I finally boarded my flight to Houston, I was sweating, frazzled, and convinced I’d aged a decade.

But oh, it got better.

Halfway through the flight, I decided to reorganize my purse — because that’s a normal thing to do in turbulence, right? I unzipped my travel bag and sent an entire pack of gum flying across Row 17. Like, full confetti launch.
The guy next to me caught two pieces mid-air like it was the Super Bowl.

When we landed, I proudly stood up to grab my bag… only to realize I was in the wrong row.
Someone else’s bag. Someone else’s life.
I apologized, grabbed my actual bag, and smacked myself in the face with the handle on the way down.

Then came my connection from Houston to Gulfport.
You’d think I’d learned something by now.
Nope.
I managed to spill water inside my mask, trip over my own luggage strap, and confidently walk into the men’s restroom while texting.

A man politely said, “Uh, ma’am—”
I said, “Oh my God, not again.”
And just walked out like a hostage escaping the scene.

By the time I landed in Gulfport, I was emotionally done.
Hair frizzy, mascara smudged, and brain running on fumes.
The flight attendant smiled sweetly and said, “Welcome to Mississippi!”
And I said, “You too.”

Here’s the thing: maybe there is something to the “dumb blonde” stereotype — at least for me.
But if being blonde means laughing through chaos, making strangers giggle in airports, and surviving the journey with my dignity mostly intact?

Then hand me the hairspray and call me Einstein.