(Let me start by saying I love Philly. The following is just an amusing and ACCURATE anecdote. Please don’t email me and tell me “Why don’t you just move if you hate it so much.” Or email me, whatever. “Squishy” is a term of endearment from “Finding Nemo.”

So as I was walking to the fifth row of my flight, just two rows behind first-class, it was clear that the only space for my carry-on was a tiny spot above a geriatric man. And since I was tired, the space was small, and my bag was heavy, I caught the flight attendant’s eye. For this story I shall her Squishy, and she shall be my Squishy.

“Can you help me?” I asked her, struggling with the weight of my bag.

“No.”

Bad Squishy. I quickly caught myself and mumbled out loud as I tried to shove my bag in by myself.

“Shit, that’s right, I forgot.”

Squishy stared at me.

“Forgot what?”

My mouth opened to say, “That this is a Philly flight crew,” but thank you dear lord, I caught myself. I made some excuse and quickly took my seat. The other flight attendant was haggard and worn, with a unibrow and really really bad hair. I wanted so much to take her for a makeover to show her what she was doing wrong.

When Squishy came around taking beverage orders, silly me, I asked for black coffee.

“There is no coffee.”

I paused, and watched first-class passengers being served coffee.

“No coffee? You mean no coffee here, or in the whole world?”

“Here.”

No coffee for me.

I knew what would meet me when I landed in Philly. Gotham-like darkness. Underpaid and overworked attendants pushing around thin brooms or sitting around on golf carts. Stores closed and barricaded with metal gates. Deserted baggage claim turnstiles going around aimlessly in circles, people waiting desperately to claim their luggage and get out of the dystopian nightmare that is the Philadelphia International Airport late at night.

As we were all walking to baggage claim, which had switched to Terminal B, an unkempt man came up behind me, claiming he had been on my flight. He began to joke with me that since he was following me to baggage claim, if I screwed up, he would be lost too.

I tried to be polite, of course. But I was tired, cold, hungry and angry at my Squishy, and to top it all off, I still had to find my car in the cavernous parking garage and then drive home. I suppose he interpreted my initial smile as encouragement, so he began to tell me his life story. Traveling since 4 a.m. from Milwaukee, hungry and exhausted. Then he asked me if I wanted to stop at an airport café and buy him a cheesesteak. He laughed after the request as if he were joking. But he wasn’t.

How. The. Fuck. Do. I. Attract. These. Kind. Of. Men. I demand an answer. NOW!

I’m not subtle. I literally stopped walking next to him, without excuse. He stopped too, at first, then realizing his faux pas, continued on by himself. I did not continue walking until he was out of sight. And while this may not be socially correct, here it is: I once read a quote that said something like, “Be nice to outcasts, you never know what they’re going through.”

My answer? Sometimes they’re outcasts for a good reason. And when you’re a single woman traveling late at night, assume that all you want.