First Class

So, I went down to the Florida Keys a few weeks ago. Left the wifey at home and met a buddy of mine. I booked first class, cause it wasn’t that much more money. When I “priority boarded” (gloat gloat,) it was business first class, and the seats were like little cabins. There was one seat at the window, then aisle, then 2 seats, then aisle, then the one seat on the other side by the window. Just to give you the lay of the land. I was like a kid starting summer vacation, giddy as fuck. I had my own seat by the window. So, I looked around my compartment and pushed buttons, reclined my seat, which went all the way down I might add. Reclined back up with a stupid grin on my face. (I have traveled first class a couple of other times, but I never had this much room!) So, I nestled into my lil hotel room, as the coach passengers filed by.

Our stewardess is passing out water in the other aisle. I waited patiently. I was thirsty and felt the need to hydrate. People kept boarding, Stewardess Janet kept serving the other aisle. I think there were 30 first class cabins. I looked hopefully at Janet as she went to refill her tray, my blue eyes searching her out across the aisle. Now we’re down to the last stragglers in coach. I’m still hopeful. Starting to get fidgety, seeing Janet now doesn’t have her tray. No worries, she wouldn’t forget about us. Now the door is closing and we’re told to buckle up. Janet is seated and buckled. And I am thirsty as fuck. And annoyed. And need to talk to someone. I text atomic brunette, cause she’s super responsive. “Dude, I didn’t get my water,” I texted. She said, “You’ll get it, be patient.” We’re taxiing from the gate now. “Dude, I’m not getting any water!!! They didn’t give me fucking water!!” She said, “Fuckers!” Which always cracks me up when she says that. I picture her, with her little accent, yelling “fuckers!” at the top of her lungs.

So, I’m pissy. I’ll admit. ‘Til they brought out the warm nuts. Then I was placated. My next adventure was trying to figure out the tray table. It was folded under itself. I can’t paint you a picture, you’ll just have to trust me. I yank on it. Nothing. I yank harder. Nothing. Now I’m yanking the fuck out of it. Why won’t this fucker open! I almost ripped that thing off. Then I could have held it up to Janet and said, “My thing broke.” I looked for a latch or a button or something. I can’t find a thing. I start yanking all over again. Meanwhile, everyone else has their tray out and ready for the first course of our airplane meal. So, I give up, I ask the stewardess, (Not Janet, cause she’s on my shit list) “How does this tray table come out.” She gives me the old “aren’t you pathetic” kinda look, and pushes this button on top of the tray thingy. Out it pops. Now, before you call me a moron, this button looked like a decal for god’s sake. It totally did.

So the lunch was decent. A warm cookie for dessert. Yum! Rest of the flight down was uneventful. Oh, I must have asked for ten glasses of water, just cause I felt like they owed me.

Coming home, same seat. This time I popped my tray table out with no effort. Nobody got water. Fucking Janet’s fault I’m sure. Some beef thing for dinner. The baked potato was retched. Literally, made me retch, how you can fuck up a baked potato is beyond me. But I had a pretzel roll that more than made up for it. I was in row 5. I watch Not-Janet start bringing the warm cookies out. She gave them out to row 1, 2, 3, and 4. I waited. And waited. And waited. I flashed my “where’s my dorping warm chocolate chip cookie” look to Not-Janet, you know the look ladies. But to no avail. There were no more cookies, evidently. What the dorp? Did they run out? What kind of cruel alternate universe was I living in? Was there a cookie lottery that I didn’t know about? Was this all part of some sort of Hunger Games? Did I need to fight for a cookie? Cause you bet your ass I would’ve. That 80yr old wouldn’t stand a chance. So, I’m pissy, again.

We’re getting close to landing, and we’re instructed to put away our tray tables. I push on my tray table, trying to fold it up. Not budging. I push down harder. Nothing. I had no trouble on the way down folding this fucker up. I’m pushing and pushing. Pushed down so hard I think my bladder dropped. Took a good five minutes. I swear I must have looked like a smacked ass. Do they have security cameras on planes? If so, I’m sure I’m famous by now, my tray table adventures legendary at American Airlines. I can see myself, strutting through the airport, carry-on bag wheeling behind me, finger gunning all the pilots and stewardesses, winking, nodding, as they whisper, “There she is, she’s the one. The one who can’t operate a fucking tray table. I hope she’s not on my flight.”