Oh Northwest Airlines. I made my connection despite your best sabotage efforts. I could not have triumphed in the dash through the Minneapolis Airport without the support of the professional personal trainer trying to make the same flight.

At my side, she was flattering shade of unnaturally tan, muscled the likes of American Gladiatorette Blaze, and wearing navy blue daisy dukes and Asics cross trainers as if she predicted this very time scrunch predicament when she woke up for her flight at 4 AM. She ran at a pace just beyond my grasp through the terminals—no sign of short breath or increased heart rate. Meanwhile, I tried to keep up in my Chucks; each step solicited a pant followed by f-bombs at myself for that cigarette I had to have on the deck yesterday. She asked me questions about my upcoming vacation. I could only muster grunted answers. Strangely, her perfectly tangello breasts (crucifix nestled between) don’t budge as we run. I can’t help but think of them as the steady beams pointing us to our finish line: Gate G13.

Ten minutes into our Chicago flight, my breath finally even, reaping the benefits of my window seat, I realized that I really (really) had to pee--my row 21 compatriots had been passed out complete since our first review of seat floatation procedure. And despite it all Pitchfork, we unite. We get along swimmingly.