I travel for work sometimes because I’m super glamorous and important. And because other people don’t want to do it.
Although napping in airports and cruising around in subpar rental cars coated with stale cigarettes and cheap booze might sound exciting, it’s really just a bunch of smoke and mirrors. Sorry to disappoint.
Flying doesn’t make me nervous. What does make me nervous, however, is how long the chicken lo mein at the airport has been sitting under the heat lamp. Hello salmonella.
But it tastes delicious.
I hate checking luggage because it takes forever and I’m not entirely sure the baggage handlers don’t go through my stuff and make fun of the number of “emergency snack items” I pack. I prefer to take my emergency kit with me, even if it results in judging glaces from security.
When I arrived for my most recent trip, I headed to the security line to get fondled and groped, or at least I hoped I would. I also hoped a cute TSA worker who would do the groping; although based on my past experience, it would be a 62 year-old Marge.
Her goatee is prickly when it brushes against me and she could benefit from a Tic Tac. Or fifty.
As I walked toward the line I noticed there were two. One line was for economy class and the other was for first class. Economy class? Isn’t that what used to be called coach?
I love how they changed it to “economy class” so it sounds like those of us who can’t afford better seats are making an economical decision.
As if we all want to sit in cloth seats that smell like body odor and STDs from the 47 year old stripper in Vegas trying to live her dream.
Well, at least “economy” is better than the word “coach.” Naming the cheap seats after a person whose job it is to be surrounded by sweaty men in jock straps doesn’t exactly scream comfort.
I got in the line for economy, and held my head in shame. Maybe some day I would make the big bucks to afford to travel in style, but for now, I would have to settle for flying economy and begging for free drinks on the plane.
I’m not above it. Seriously.
The economy line wrapped around the room and was far longer than the first class line. In fact, the first class line had no line!
Those a-holes just breezed right through, without a care in the world, or a dollar in their pocket, if the price of the ticket was any indication.
To add insult to injury, while standing in line for my economy seats, I stepped in gum.
I figured the first class passengers didn’t step in gum in their non existent line, or if they did, it was name brand gum like Clorets. You know, classy stuff.
Miraculously I made it through security without incident, despite my death stares to the first class passengers. Perhaps the TSA workers could feel my resentment so they let me through. That, or they were scared of my crazy eyes.
Either are viable explanations.
Before I was allowed to board the aircraft, the flight attendant repeatedly announced over the loud speaker that the first class passengers could board, and no one else could.
She kept saying it every few minutes, as if she was rubbing it in our faces.
I half expected her to end the sentence with “Nana nana boo boo.”
We get it. You’re special.,,and rich…and clearly comfortable in your seat. I scowled at each of the first class passengers as they did a victory dance and arrogantly walked to the plane.
I considered tripping one of them, but didn’t want to extend my foot and its two week old pedicure.
I let the privileged pass me without incident, although I attempted to fart in an effort to make their boarding miserable.
As if watching the first class passengers get on the plane first wasn’t torture enough, I was then forced to walk past them lounging in their comfortable seats when getting on the plane.
Most of them were trying to look important with their newspapers and iPads, flaunting their reading capabilities to those of us commoners in economy.
One of the men clearly had no idea we reached the 21st century, as he seemed impressed with himself and his shiny Bluetooth.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him and his acid washed jeans that there were these cool things called iPhones that were far more advanced than what appeared to be a laser on his ear.
I decided not to tell him. He’ll learn about the iPhone in due time….in 2032.
I continued on my walk of shame, although I noticed it was a little different than the walk of shame in college.
At least this time I had showered and didn’t smell like cheap beer. I smelled like cheap vodka. I was moving up.
I located my seat which was next to a crabby woman who obviously must have been upset about the flaunting going on in first class. I arm wrestled with my carry on, summoned all my strength, and lifted it above my head like a professional.
I then looked at my tiny, cloth seat and mentally compared it to the plush seat I saw in first class. I wondered what caused the brownish stain on the seat, but figured I didn’t want to know, and quickly sat down before I considered it any further.
I plopped down into the seat that was clearly designed for a size 6 butt, or an 8 year old, as both are the same size in my mind. I felt smashed in the seat like a stuffed sausage, which is appropriate since that’s what I had for lunch before boarding the plane.
I attempted to put on my seat belt, because I’m a fan of safety. Of course, the seat belt was also made for a third grader.
As if my shame wasn’t already buried somewhere in stowage, I had to let out the seat belt to allow it to go over my large belly. Frickety frick.
Since I was one of the last to board, we got ready to take off shortly after I smushed myself into the seat.
Fortunately for me, I was exhausted and immediately fell asleep within minutes of smashing myself into the small space.
I awoke as we were landing and was happy to know that I would soon be exiting the plane where I would no longer be in a caste society. I would emerge into the airport as a regular person, and would immediately commence my normal routine of judging people.
It felt good to return to the top!