When I didn't get my cookie, I almost started crying. No, this didn't happen when I was 5, 10 or even 15 years old. It was this past Christmas on an airplane bound for my home in New York, and I'm pretty sure this is the most embarrassing sentence I have ever typed.

It's not as if I'm normally some sort of slavering baked goods fiend (though I do love those Biscoff on Delta. Pro tip: Ask for a lime wedge to squeeze on them) or an especially nervous air passenger. I fly frequently enough to earn medallion status, know all the tricks for zipping through security lines bearing various challenging food products and am rattled not by pockets of turbulence.

It's just that when I've been stripped of my possessions, my dignity and any semblance of personal space and then strapped in for a multihour spell in the world's most cramped and crappy bar car, the little niceties go a long way toward keeping me - keeping everyone - sane. Or at least what passes for sane at 30,000 feet above the Earth.

Read - That's how the cookie (and a passenger's calm) crumbles