The art of queuing

Has anyone mastered the art of queuing?  Having lived in regional Australia for the last 6 years or so, I have developed a sense that more than 5 people in a line is tantamount to an unlawful gathering with probable intent to overthrow the government.

Now I find myself in a city airport with 50 odd people in a queue in front of me and I've discovered that I don't have the psychological toolkit to handle the emotional experience.

It doesn't help that I don't like crowds and noise.  It's an assault on the senses. I feel like a voodoo doll being constantly stabbed. It's not unlike acupuncture but without the sense of engagement with ancient wisdom and corresponding placebo effect cure of my first world problems.

So I've come up with Young's Taxonomy - the seven emotional stages of queuing.

Despair: when you first see the line,  your heart will sink as you face the certainty of wasted life minutes.  Who knows,  you could be hit by a bus tomorrow and this half hour was one of the last precious few you had on this Earth. And, as your life flashes before your eyes and the tunnel of light beckons,  one of your lingering images will be of the kid swinging from the red rope and knocking over the silver pole things.

Anger: Why don't they have more staff on?  Why wasn't that person at the head of the queue ready when they mumbled "next please" from nine desks up the line?  You will accelerate from the depths of misery in stage one straight up through to borderline apoplexy as your heart races and your face dons its fiercest and most disapproving expression.  You will mutter complaints to your spouse,  just too loud to be sotto voce but not loud enough for your iredol to take legitimate offence and take you to task for your rudeness.

Anxiety: Brought on by other people's anger phase,  you will now start to worry that your movement up the line will be too slow,  you won't have the right documents ready or that you'll be in the wrong line altogether and will be sent in disgrace down to the end counter which you should have noticed had a business card sized sign for people who need to check in a guitar  It's quite normal at this stage to pat your pockets three times a minute,  read and reread your ticket, jerk spasmodically at every tiny movement of the person in front and glance around nervously at every barely heard utterance of frustration from people behind you.

Tedium: You can't talk to your spouse because the anger phase has set up a "moment" between you that will have to be sorted out later.  You can't read this excellent blog because you can't risk not being ready to move forward another car length at a moment's notice.  You've taken in all the information you can from the advertising and safety information signs and,  Sherlock-like, you could confidently inform Watson of the number of silver poles between you and the start of the queue, and the number of baubles in the Christmas wreaths overhead.  You now have nothing to do.

Time dilation: The passage of time will slow down for you as you near the front of the queue. Studies are currently underway to determine if this is due to the proximity of a large mass of frustration - relativity at work - or just our impatience to be done with this horrible experience dilating our perceptions. Don't feel alarmed at this point if, when you look at the person being served at the counter, you see their lips move lethargically and hear their voice sounding a bit drunk as the slow motion replay sponsor's logo appears in the bottom right hand side of your vision. To everyone else it will seem like you waited for 45 seconds to a minute at the front of the queue but to you, 23 years will have passed.

Disbelief: Now it's finally your turn and you're glancing up and down the serving counters, trying to estimate who will be finished first so you're ready on the clutch when the light turns green. And, with increasing incredulity, you notice that every single customer in front of you has brought six bags with them - each weighing something in excess of 60kg. If basic general knowledge about air travel had not caused them pause for thought, the endless repetitions of baggage limits on tickets, websites, signage and travel agent advice should have done the trick. But no, they are now standing there, arguing with the plastic smile behind the counter that they couldn't possibly travel with any less, have special dietary requirements that meant the packing of a whole cow, are arriving from overseas where baggage restrictions don't apply, were forced into it by the rising cost of airfares (there are kids set up with iPods and softdrinks in at least two of the suitcases) or some other bizarre justification. All with a look of pained injustice on their face. And the plastic smile, whose job it is to make sure that the plane not only gets off the ground but stays that way until the pilot deems otherwise, is just saying no. Now it really might be 23 years.

Resolution and superiority: Now you're done and through. Bag checked in, boarding pass in hand and you can walk along the winner's side of the red rope, posing for the paparazzi, signing autographs and appearing in selfies with envious teenagers who are stuck with their parents back at the anger phase. Walk with your head high, you heart full and your ego inflated - until you realise that you're back to square one because the queue for security checking started sometime last Tuesday.

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