My best friend has been in Texas all week. I’m actually not jealous, because she’s been spending time with her sister-in-law and brother. Her sister-in-law has been given a Stage IV pancreatic cancer diagnosis and so Lisa felt the need to be by her side for a time. I think it’s been a good visit for both of them. They had some late night cookie eating bonding moments.

She was flying home today and the Houston Hobby hub has been a cluster. First they landed from Midland, but had to sit on the plane waiting for a gate for over an hour. Lisa had been looking forward to her hour and a half layover to get something to eat. So that was shot. Luckily, her other flight got a late start boarding or she would have probably missed it. Then she had to sit on that plane at the gate for an eternity. And it wasn’t a weather delay, evidently they’re short ground crews. The Southwest flight tracker online was telling me they had departed, but then Lisa starts texting me and sends me pictures from the window and they’re still on the ground. So that would be frustrating if you were depending on accurate information from the airline. Also, their times had been skewed all day, and I don’t mean on account of time zones. Like, seven minutes into the future they’re listing that the plane had landed.

Life would be so much easier if I weren’t a worrywart.

But all this got me to thinking about how I used to really want to be a flight attendant. Or as we said back when, “stewardess”. It seemed so exotic and adventurous. Fly here and there, see the sights, meet tons of cool people from all walks of life. It seemed like a dream job for me, since I loved to travel and see new things and meet interesting people. I wasn’t tied to home, really, and I didn’t have a husband or children. But I never pursued the dream, and it went in the pile of other professions I thought I would enjoy: ballerina, veterinarian, sea turtle rehabilitator, lighthouse keeper, author. It would surface every now and then as the career that got away. I love to fly, but let’s be honest, if somebody got smart with me I’d probably throw coffee in their face. And if they were next to an emergency exit, Lord help them.

Maybe I should have considered being an Air Marshall instead.

Anyway, one day I was talking about missing out on at least trying it for awhile and my aunt said I should put it out of my head—I was too short. And she’s right, I don’t know why that never occurred to me. I don’t take a carry on, ever, because I can’t reach the overhead bins. I mean, I can, but if it was to shift to the back, I’d definitely have to ask for assistance. And I don’t do well asking for help with anything.

There are lots of prerequisites for making a flight attendant. No visible tattoos, no concealed tattoos bigger than a credit card, ability to push a cart averaging 250#, ability to stay calm in a crisis, a pleasant attitude, a neat overall appearance, ability to lift 60#, job history for the last decade, credit score…I mean it goes on and on and on. Delta is especially strict. Let’s face it: my hair alone lends a disheveled look unless Christy has had ahold of it, and I wouldn’t be able to put her in my carry on every day. And we all know how wide my ass is. That’s a hazard in itself, never mind adding some lecherous drunk guy to the mix.

All this brought to mind one experience at the Nashville airport. At least, I think it was Nashville. Wherever. I was in the queue, waiting to check my bag and get my boarding pass. Each agent was working two customers at a time. They had a light above each side that would come on when they had a free spot. I was at the head of the line, watching fixedly like a bird dog for my turn. A customer walked away from the agent, but she still had a customer on the other side and she didn’t turn on the light.

Some jerk face three or four travelers back started screaming at me to move up. And sweet, naive me, who takes zero shit, screamed back. “I will, when she’s ready, because the light isn’t on,” I hissed, instantly pissed. I’m not a seasoned traveler, but I can read and follow direction and this guy was a total ass. And as soon as the light came on, I went, and there was no delay in the action. But the rude dude kept giving me dirty looks and I thought to myself he’s the reason weapons aren’t allowed on planes. And good thing, because I was feeling a little stabby, myself.

So flight attendants have to deal with that kind of garbage day in and day out and I didn’t do so hot with that on the ground at the Co-op, I can’t imagine faring any better in the sky.

Even with the hassle it is today, even though my luggage got lost and rained on in Atlanta, even though I spent the night in a plastic chair in Salt Lake City, even though I thought we were gonna crash and burn upon touchdown in San Antonio, even though a child kicked my chair from Portland Oregon to Atlanta, even though Chickalay grilled nuggets smell like hot cauliflower marinated in skunk juice when you’re trapped in the seat next to someone eating them, I still love to fly. Can’t y’all just see me up there in my sensible black flats and my laminated safety sheet, using two fingers to point out the exits? Dang it. Why can’t my wingspan be just a few inches longer? I’d quit today and take to the skies! ✈️

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy