Sorry, Sir, not quite yet …
Once you cross into adulthood, there are few moments in life left when promise exceeds premise. Boarding an airplane is one of these.
By then, countless hours watching Law & Order tell you that despite numerous, increasingly desperate announcements, they’ll never ever find a certain ‘Dick Barnes’, or was it ‘Rick Pawns’, who’s apparently super late for his flight to LA one gate over — but wait, who gives a sh*t!?! You’re getting up from design-free pleather chairs that have been upholstered last in the Pleistocene but make up for it by being permanently encrusted with a shimmering layer of God-knows-what. 55 years in, you feel you finally timed your bowel movements to perfection which - with or without the predicted tailwinds [sic] - should not only make for a pleasant 2-hr ride to DC but also, in the interest of facilitating boarding, will allow you to ‘assist’ this flight’s stereotypical, elderly lady (often seated around 12A, I find) by catapulting her unseasonably heavy luggage out of the isle it so annoyingly blocks and into the overhead orbit, never to be seen or heard of again (the suitcase, not the lady). You’re welcome. Truth be told, your confidence is helped by a surprising, albeit temporary surge of will power that it took to stay under ~$25 on the c-card at Hudson News for snacks that you could just as easily staple directly to your hip instead of wasting time going the scenic route through your stomach. Anyway — You’re ready.
Sure, courtesy of the pixelated, dimly lit (but proudly US-made) flight display monitor you permanently lost a bit of eyesight fixating for hours on the incoming plane’s increasingly delayed arrival time — the ‘friendly skies’ are getting crowded. And yes, catching up with the ever-popular last minute gate changes must look random to a BMI-rich simpleton like you, failing to appreciate the pre-takeoff thrombosis prevention you didn’t even pay for. Anyway, when they finally announce the actual boarding, while mentioning in passing that both WiFi and the front toilette are unfortunately broken — at no additional fee, mind you — your caffeinated heart jumps as several pent-up thoughts rush in: When can I finally start molding the seat that’s still uncomfortably warm from the massive a** of the incoming passenger? Will I get lost in all the advertised, additional legroom — perhaps, there’s even some echo when my expectations drop ? How quickly will I adapt to that stale, recycled air that signals a proprietary mix of unrestrained sweat, impending fear, and crushed customer service? And last but not least, my personal favorite — where on the overpriced & oversold ticket does it say which group I’m in this time? Groups 1 & 2 will be a major score, but you’ll take 3 as well — after all, exit rows may enable you to keep some minor circulation in your legs up to 10000 feet or whenever the expired peanuts come out. Still, anything “post-4” means you lost the overhead compartment fight before it even started and must check your luggage — bye, bye nondescript roll-on, it was fun while it lasted. “5” — you’re legitimately f*cked, like on a red-eye to Katmandu, and for Group 6 they may as well have handles outside nailed down on the wings for you to hold on — like Jimmy Stewart in ‘The Flight of the Phoenix’ — no worries, oxygen and earphones are available for an extra charge, credit card only, I’m afraid, Darling.
But that’s just a temporary setback for a sophisticated frequent flier (FF) like you. You have done Newark on Thanksgiving, so how bad can this get? What’s interesting, and really a science on its own, is the various elite clubs and FF-memberships that convey privilege and bestow prestige; it is then that you realize you must be a libertarian schmuck as, indeed, you belong to none. Life’s lesson is a harsh one: You can up-‘grade’ but not up-‘status’. While they glide past you, your higher status(ed) ‘fellow’ travelers will hiss a pointed “excuuuuse me” that only thinly veils their completely justified disdain for your ‘special situation’. Clearly, “some are more equal than others” — Orwell must have uttered that iconic sentence while patiently waiting to board a DC-3 in the 30s, and back then already the greasy airport environment may have been suggestive for his choice of animal protagonists.
Pigs aside, I’m of course referring to the plethora of mvp, executive, mint, mosaic or platinum, gold, silver, emerald and sapphire “status” designations that add a sprinkle of long lost class while making you reminisce of Tiffany — although you can’t help but feel that Audrey Hepburn would have surely flown private. This notwithstanding, these statuses are set in stone and only to be trumped by an ancient ritual called “pre-boarding”, that is (i) people with disabilities (agreed — but note: an online comfort or service dog certificate for your grotesquely shivering Shih*(T)zu only counts in JetBlue because you don’t see the warm, apparently anxiety-reducing dog piss on the dark-ish carpet), (ii) families with small children (who can’t fold their own strollers & don’t shave yet) and (iii) active members of the armed forces (ours, of course).
So, in closing — — thanks to all the credit card points you manage to redeem just before the airline could void them, you may hold that once-in-a-lifetime biz or even first-class ticket, and consequently feel you really belong into Group 1, for once. But, not so fast, hombre! — the unshaven guy in Birkenstocks and white socks who looks like he needs a mint as opposed to having that very status, with a cute kid in tow that salutes the gate attendant like John-Jay at the 63’ funeral will get to sit faster. Just how life works.
“Your turn, Sir. Thank you for choosing …”.
(*= The “h” is silent).
