I grew up in airports. With a big, fat, greek family that lives, well… everywhere… travel was the name of the game. More than quarter of a century (do you like the way that makes me sound super old mature?) later, getting on a plane is pretty much my version of Groundhog Day… although the drinks on these flights have come a long way…

So, the beginning of my latest flight began normally enough. Sky Priority line is completely empty? Sweet! Being hit on by the TSA agent who’d just watched me wander through the body scanner? Woohoo Par for the course… Okay, im kidding. If it did happen, I wouldn’t be surprised. Ha.  There was an agent who totally took a look at my ass when I picked up to my passport. That was a little yikes… I suppose it could have ended in an extra-special Freedom Pat. Okay, yeah, that would have been far worse. Ew.

In any case, I was traumatized. Had you been in my situation, what would you have- wait. No. I don’t really care what you’d have done, because this is all about me. I found the nearest Sky Club aka my Disneyland the (real) happiest place on earth.

No, ginger-ale wasn’t the only thing in that soda can. Hello, open bar. Needless to say, the fabulous team at the Sky Club make it easy to relax before a flight. I may have relaxed too much.

The next thing I know, I’m being paged because the flight is in final boarding. Heh. Whoops. Not a problem. I’m stress free as I wander the fairly short distance to the gate. They greeted me by name. How did they know? I managed to be the last person on the plane. Maybe my next book should be about how to make instant enemies BFFs with one’s fellow passengers?

Whatever. The walk me on to the plane where I find out, the overhead bin space is all gone. They need to check the bag. Okay. Fine. Sure. I wait while they fill out the tags, naturally zeroing in on the couple nearby. Boyfriend’s trying to convince his girlfriend to take his upgraded seat. She happily plays the giggly martyr, saying that she’s fine. It’ll be a fairly short flight. I’ll spare you additional details; they’re vomit worthy at best.

I get my luggage ID tag, venture a few rows further, and yep, sure enough, my seat is right next to Mr. Seat-Upgrade. It is relevant to mention that Mr. SU is not only old enough to be drawing social security, he’s been raking it in for a while.

That’s me, I say, gesturing to the window seat, offering a a smile.

Mr. SU smiles back. Ms. I-Don’t-Need-An-Upgrade-For-A-Short-Flight takes one look at my (apparently whorish?) mini skirt (screw you, I’m wearing tights!) shoots a quick glance at Mr. SU and announces she changed her mind. She wants the seat after all. Awesome.

Exhibit A: the slutty skirt (taken earlier that day.)

Exhibit B: Well…

Yes, that’s really her.

You didn’t expect me not to document this, did you?