Ushered by my dad, I wandered into the American Airlines terminal at LAX. Taking nearly ten minutes of being disordered and persisting in the incorrect line, we made our way to the help-yourself booth and obtained my boarding pass then headed to the baggage check-ins. “This will be an experience,” I thought to myself as I knew that my bag may be over the accepted limit, which is 50 pounds. Well, they will allow you to take heavier baggage if you pay a fee, which does not catch my fancy. My dad lifted it up onto the oversized, silver scale.
The red blinks of digital numbers quickly faded into a 54 as the impersonal lady declared, “That will be a fine of 68 dollars.” I hastily unzipped my case, not even thinking about whether I would need my purse, curling iron, or set of pajamas as I flung random items into my father’s arms. I hulled my luggage back onto the machine and anxiously gazed that the increasing scale statistics. Fifty. I was completely overjoyed, but soon forgot about my current success as the gal pronounced, “You have 20 minutes until your boarding time.” My pop briskly marched me to the opening of the security and found out that this is where we had to part. I gave my dad one last, short hug for fear that I would miss my flight. As soon as I caught up to the nearest person pausing in line, I realized that I already missed my dad.
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