Spot the Karen: Airport Edition – A Gate-Side Survival Guide

There’s a game I play every time I go to the airport. No, it’s not Wordle. It’s not “Guess Which Line Moves Slower.” It’s not even “Will My Bag Fit in the Overhead Bin of Shame?”

It’s far more thrilling. Deeply unhinged.

Possibly a full-contact sport.

It’s called Spot the Karen: Airport Edition.

The rules are simple:

• Identify a person whose stress level is at DEFCON 1 by 6:15 a.m.

• Bonus points if she’s trying to bypass a boarding group using loyalty points, an old yoga injury, or her “close relationship with the airline.”

• Automatic victory if she loudly demands to speak to anyone in charge of the clouds.

Let’s rewind to a recent incident at Gate C17, aka the Emotional Hunger Games terminal.

I’m there. Coffee in hand. Hoodie up. Ready to mind my business and silently judge humanity like any respectable traveler. Boarding hasn’t even started, and the gate is already crackling with the energy of missed flights and repressed emotions.

Then, the air shifts.

The energy in the terminal grows tense. Babies cry without reason. TSA agents look skyward. Birds fall from the sky in formation.

Karen has arrived.

You don’t see her at first.

You feel her.

It’s the scent of expensive dry shampoo, the swish of a puffer vest moving with indignation, and the echo of a suitcase with wheels that scream “my husband owns a boat.”

She marches to the gate desk—not the end of the line, not to wait her turn—but directly to the front. A direct assault on order. She slaps her boarding pass on the counter like she’s presenting legal documents to the Hague.

“Excuse me. I need to board now. I have TSA PreCheck, Priority Access, a rotator cuff injury, and a brunch in Toledo.”

The gate agent blinks. She’s seen things. She’s unfazed.

“Ma’am, we’re currently boarding Groups 1 and 2. You’re Group 7.”

Karen gasps.

Group. Seven.

To her, this is not a boarding sequence. This is oppression.

You’d think they assigned her a seat in the luggage hold with the emotional support ferrets.

She doubles down.

“This is unacceptable. I paid extra. My purse is a personal item. I was promised a smooth experience.”

Smooth? Ma’am. You’re flying commercial in 2025. The only thing smooth is the butter packet in the airport lounge.

Meanwhile, the rest of us—Group 7 peasants—are watching like it’s the Live at the Apollo of travel meltdowns. A woman next to me starts texting her group chat. I pretend to tie my shoe just to stay in range of the drama.

Eventually, boarding is called.

Karen spins around like she’s just liberated France.

“Finally,” she huffs, loud enough for the flight attendants to hear three gates over.

We all follow her onto the plane like survivors of emotional warfare.

Guess who’s in my row?

Karen.

She immediately presses the call button and asks if she can switch snacks, because she’s “allergic to dry crackers and disrespect.”

She’s also shocked—shocked!—that sparkling water isn’t complimentary in Main Cabin, and that the Wi-Fi costs money. She pulls out an iPad, a magazine, and an attitude. She orders tomato juice, which I now understand is the official beverage of airborne entitlement.

But you know what?

I salute her.

She’s a character. A story. A live-action meme.

Because while some people collect passport stamps, I collect Karen encounters like badges of emotional survival.

Next time you’re at the airport, don’t just pack headphones and a book. Keep your eyes open. Your boarding pass ready. And your emotional shields high.

Because somewhere—maybe even at Gate C17—there’s a Karen preparing for takeoff.

And she’s not waiting for her group to be called.