I shouldn’t have to say it, but apparently I have to say it. When you are flying and seated in the back of the airplane, stop putting your luggage in the first open bin just because you fucking can.

Last week, I had the misfortune of navigating a connection in Denver, Colorado. Never in my life have I ever had a smooth connection through Denver, Colorado, but this time, I thought I’d won. I had a two-hour layover. I wasn’t flying during peak travel hours. My plane wasn’t arriving from some hellish weather landscape. Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I would have a smooth connection through Denver.

It wasn’t meant to be. Mechanical issues led to delays, and as we began the process of boarding, it appeared that my two-hour layover would probably be fifteen minutes or less. Okay. Okay. That’s fine. I was in one of the closest non-first-class rows to the front of the plane. I would be okay.

But as I boarded, I immediately saw a problem: The other people in the previous groups had apparently simply stowed their luggage in the first available bin space, meaning there was no space for my small travel bag in the overhead bin above my own seat. Meaning I had to traverse many rows back to stow my luggage.

(And I do not want to hear a single person give me the “well why don’t you just check your bag or consolidate your luggage to one under-the-seat bag?” bullshit. I was on a press trip, which means my luggage was packed with various professional outfits, cameras, and, unfortunately, podcasting equipment, and by this point, I’m on so many different goddamn medications that my under-the-seat bag looks like a fucking pharmacy. One satchel simply is not happening.)

Now, this? This was bad news. No human being who has ever boarded an airplane has the smallest smidge of common courtesy, and I just knew that if I did not launch myself from my seat and into the back of the plane as soon as it was safe to remove seatbelts after landing, I would have to wait for everyone to disembark before I could fend my way to the rear of the plane to acquire my luggage.

“Can I just gate-check this and pick it up at my final destination,” I asked one of the flight attendants.

“No, not when there’s still space in the overhead bins,” the flight attendant responded.

“Is there any way you can make an announcement that anyone sitting in the back with a bag in the front of the plane has space to move it over their seat?” I asked.

“If you want to ask everyone row by row, be my guest,” the flight attendant responded.

So I stowed by bag, sat down, and shut up so as to be the cause of any further boarding delays that would shave my connection time down and lower.

And there I was, belted into my seat, seething with a quiet rage at the mere concept of air travel, preparing myself for yet another cross-terminal run in Denver, which feels like the World’s Longest Fucking Airport — and now I was going to have even less time because some godless heathens in row 30 decided that row eight was the perfect place to pop their bags.

Thankfully, when the plane landed, I was blessed enough to immediately leap out of my seat and back to the aisle where my bag was stowed. A woman who I initially thought was kind commiserated with my travel woes, saying that she had “been there before” and was thankful Denver was her final destination. But she, like every other air traveler at some point in the flight process, turned into a literal demon spawned directly from hell: Instead of letting me by to exit the plane, she pushed in front of me with a faux-apologetic smile and a, “Sorry, my husband is waiting for me in the cell phone lot.”

And to make matters worse, she then proceeded to fumble with her bags, costing me precious seconds that I needed to spend making a mad dash from one end of Terminal B to the next.

Reader, if looks could kill. If looks could kill.

I did, thankfully, at the end of all this madness, somehow make my flight. My connection to San Antonio had been delayed by a mere five minutes due to a longer-than-usual cleaning process, which meant I slipped through the boarding doors mere moments before it was set to close. I thanked my lucky stars that I would not have to sleep in the Denver airport, and I also cursed those exact same stars for giving me this win instead of, say, a one-in-a-million chance at a lottery victory that would enable me to purchase first-class seats for the rest of my life.

So let this be your reminder: Stop stowing your goddamn luggage where it doesn’t fucking belong. (And yes, get your tiny purses, coats, and gift bags out of there, too, so we all have enough fucking space.)