The Chicago O'Hare is too big

You've completed two of the three flights on your international journey. Only a four hour layover in Chicago O'Hare stands between you and home.

You know that exhaustion that comes with being awake for too many hours straight due to existing solely on planes and in airports coupled with an inability to sleep on planes or in airports?

That kind of exhaustion that results in you being temporarily handcuffed by the police because when the cop asks what you think you're doing, rather than apologize and be quiet, you choose to inform him that he should be embarrassed by the Chicago O'Hare airport's Terminal M's lack of appropriate signage and the disarray that forms thanks to the merging of the bagging carousel path and connecting flights path. Two paths, you inform him, which should never cross. Hence the unnecessary bottle neck that in you are confident could be fixed by rearranging of a good number of ropes. 

That no, Officer, you weren't trying rearrange the ropes to bypass Customs to illegally enter the United States nor were you trying to smuggle in the small congregation of people now following behind you. The ones who could easily be confused for a world-weary cult. In fact, Officer, you've never seen these people before in your life. In fact, you didn't even know they were behind you, but, you reason they began following you in an equal state of exhausted desperation.

That exhaustion where you can still recognize that your actions are ones of hubris and entitlement. (Luckily, white women hijinks don't result in the blue boys' timeless tradition of shoot first, deny later.) That you've both mentally and verbally accepted that you're going to be arrested in this, the state of Chicago, by an officer whose accent you unintentionally parrot, making it look like you're mocking him, when really you just want to go home, dontcha know? (The officer is not a bird enthusiast.)

And that state of exhaustion in which, Officer, you recognize you have an unhealthy obsession with improving the flow of traffic. Why, not even half an hour ago, you were directing people to their appropriate bus to take (red v. blue) to reach their respective gates - As, with no appropriate signage posted indicating which bus was which, which bus you needed to take, and with the only person possessing this knowledge occupied by insisting to the parents of a child that the child must present her government-issued picture ID, an item not actually issued to minors, you felt it was in everyone's best interest if you successfully conducted things for some time until the eventual arrival of your bus. 

And an exhaustion that emboldens you to share that, frankly, Officer, perhaps with this level of inefficiency, the continued and nearing city-sized expansion of the O'Hare is unnecessary. Rather that a rework of routes, paths, and signs could and would fix things. 

An exhaustion that has you convinced if the fine higher-ups of the Chicago O'Hare International Airport took a note from the pages of Disney, Universal, and even Six Flags Amusement Park and designed it such that passengers arriving from international flights were instead ushered onto a river rapids ride (8-12 people per raft) which led along a course which disembarked at the customs area, things would run smoother than the current excuse of a mess that is Chicago O'Hare.

That exhaustion where even though this is going to be one the stupider felonies on record, you've made peace with being arrested. Heck, you even stuck your hands out, wrists together to make it easier for the arresting officer to cuff you. 

That exhaustion that make you think at least the detainment paperwork will provide a momentary respite from navigating through the crowds roving in each and every direction, all equally lost, all equally exhausted. 

That's the exhaustion I felt. 

And as the officer led me to interview box B, I swore I would avoid the O'Hare in the future. 

Reaching the two officers sitting in Interview Box B, uninterested in discussing my perp status, I began the conversation, 'How's it going with all this smoke from the wild fires blowing your way?' 

'You're one of the first people today to know about that.'

That can't be true as it's 3pm, you've seen hundreds if not thousands of people, and through the thick haze, surely some of them have noticed the sun's atypical shade of neon dystopia Fanta orange.

As I drank a sip of water, they gave me water, generous, Officer 1 turned to Officer 2 on his far left and said, 'She's smarter than you'. Officer 2 then looked at me and quizzed, 'Are you smarter than me?' 

The exhaustion kicked in. 'I know I'm supposed to be humble, but - yes,' I replied.

'If you're so smart, what's PM2.5?' 

Never one to miss an opportunity to geek out, I geeked. 'That's the amount of particulate matter in the air, ones measuring 2.5 micrograms or larger. The ppm is measured and reported at three main levels - 10mcg or larger, 5mcg or larger, and 2.5mcg or larger. What's the level at for 2.5mcg today?' I asked them. 

Officer 2 wide-eyed Officer 1 then peered at his cohorts who had gathered at the open door. 'Well - she's smarter than all of us.' He paused, then asked,  'Ok, Ms. Smarty Pants, should Officer 3 (one of the door standers) play at his softball game tonight?''

'Is the game outdoors?' 

'Yes.'

Looking up at Officer 3, the potential softballee, one of my internal voices took the reins. 

Not internal voices like she needs to be 5150'd as a threat to self and others, but rather one that is best described as an old-timey jaded, critical New York Jewish woman.

My face unintentionally conveyed the level of dumbfoundedness I felt in the moment. I took a deep breath, allowing me to get all my thoughts out without pausing, 'What are you, stupid? Why is the game still being held in these conditions? Have you never heard the word postponed? No. Of course not. Sure, it won't drop-dead kill you, but no. It's not worth it. I assume your team is intramural. Nope, not worth it.'

'That's what I said. You're free to go.' Officer 1 proclaimed pointing towards the exit.

And with that, I gathered my things and made my way to the next flight to take me far, far away from the Chicago O'Hare.