So yesterday afternoon I was returning from my fourth trip to the midwest in as many weeks when my Type A traveling buddy and I realized that the travel agent had booked us seats in first class.
Um, in case you didn't read correctly, I was flying home in FIRST CLASS.
Now, with my excitement that ensued upon making this discovery, you'd think that someone just gave me a million dollars.
So now the two of us are like giddy school girls headed to the dance at the all-boys school.
We're so excited about our upcoming flight, that we throw caution to wind, like eating a sushi dinner at the (couldn't-be-farther-from-an-ocean) Detroit airport.
KK: "I wish they handed out 'I'm flying First Class' stickers."
TYPE A: "I would totally wear one of those!"
One perk to our First Class status is that we got to board first, through the "sky priority" lane. Yes, folks, we've hit the big time.
I'm assigned to seat 2C.
Waiting for me is a pillow and blanket (without me having to ask!)
The waitress – er, flight attendant – is handing out drinks before the flight (free!)
I get a vodka and club soda (in a real glass! delivered on a tray!)
I smirk as I watch the coach low-lifes make their way to the back of the plane. Oh, I remember having that look just 24 hours earlier.
Instead of yelling to each other across two rows (something we would have done in coach), my coworker and I communicate via text until we take off. (HER: 'I'm trying to act cool!' ME: 'Drinks are free!')
Unfortunately, our flight is short, and we only enjoy an hour and fifteen minutes of fame. One free drink and bag of Sun Chips later, we're touching down in NYC.
Maybe it was the cushiony seats. Or the fact that I could put my jacket on – while sitting down – without elbowing my neighbor in the jaw. Or perhaps it was having someone wait on my hand and foot. Either way, I'm totally ruined for flying coach ever again.*
*Unless you ask Mr. KK, who will clearly tell you that any vacation we take together will be in row 22.