Because When You Type Fast It Looks Like Your Fingers Are Dancing

27
Jan
Last month, with absolutely no financial backing to warrant such a splurge, I went for it. The airline upgrade. I’m not embarrassed to say it: I’ve always flown coach. 99% percent of the time I fly it’s JFK-LAX, or some variation of that, which makes a mileage upgrade next to impossible. JFK-LAX makes finding any semblance of peace and happiness next to impossible. Two weeks ago I headed to LAX on a balmy Wednesday morning, walked up to the Virgin America check-in counter (also a rarity for me: checking bags!) and routinely asked if there were any upgrade seats available for purchase. There were.First Class. I giggled and smiled my way through the terminal, and joyously rose to my feet when prompted to join my other privileged airline-goers, happily ignoring the recently detained passenger who had, just moments ago, flung open a restricted door and waved a t-shirt above his head like a helicopter. I took my seat. Row 1. Seat 1. Next to me sat an incredibly relaxed man in a freshly pressed bespoke suit. He was obviously a regular, so I had to play it cool. (Whatever that meant.) I fought hard to mask the smiles and giddiness associated with my big cozy seat and newfound rank in life the air. I stared out of the window during takeoff, and kept thinking about one thing: I wonder how big the bathrooms are.

Last month, with absolutely no financial backing to warrant such a splurge, I went for it. The airline upgrade.

I’m not embarrassed to say it: I’ve always flown coach. 99% percent of the time I fly it’s JFK-LAX, or some variation of that, which makes a mileage upgrade next to impossible. JFK-LAX makes finding any semblance of peace and happiness next to impossible.

Two weeks ago I headed to LAX on a balmy Wednesday morning, walked up to the Virgin America check-in counter (also a rarity for me: checking bags!) and routinely asked if there were any upgrade seats available for purchase.

There were.
First Class.

I giggled and smiled my way through the terminal, and joyously rose to my feet when prompted to join my other privileged airline-goers, happily ignoring the recently detained passenger who had, just moments ago, flung open a restricted door and waved a t-shirt above his head like a helicopter.

I took my seat. Row 1. Seat 1.

Next to me sat an incredibly relaxed man in a freshly pressed bespoke suit. He was obviously a regular, so I had to play it cool. (Whatever that meant.) I fought hard to mask the smiles and giddiness associated with my big cozy seat and newfound rank in life the air. I stared out of the window during takeoff, and kept thinking about one thing:

I wonder how big the bathrooms are.

  1. rebeccalbrown posted this