I was forwarded this New York Times article yesterday-Flying the Unfriendly Skies. It was a pretty accurate account of “the job” I guess. One of those incognito expose’s where a reporter pretended to be a flight attendant for a couple of days to prove how dreadful the job must be. I’m here to tell you I resent that. Or , I represent that. Depends on when you ask.
Right now, I agree wholeheartedly. What an under appreciated, underpaid, soul-sucking…no, no. That’s not quite right. But it sure appears that way to outsiders. And if the NYTimes says it, it has to be true, right? This past month I had to encounter two people within a week that told me they felt sorry for me and can’t imagine how I could do my job. Now, just on the face of it, isn’t that about as condescending as it can get? There was a third incident, which happened recently to a coworker of mine, but I’ll end this post with her little pearls of wisdom.
So the first instance. I was on my way to Paris. (See, you feel sorry for me already don’t you?) I think the service was over and I was standing in a corner of the galley, wolfing down some first class food while passengers lined up for the all too close bathrooms. Some stood and blatantly stared (What’s she eating that we didn’t get?)Others showed everyone how intelligent they were by heeding their doctor’s advice and exercising, right by my jumpseat (why else would I be standing?). They do it all the time. Butts high in the air, streeeettttccchhhing. Woohoo. I’d conduct a class back here if I could make a little side change, but that would be against company regulations.
One woman, oblivious to my ravenous, wild-animal stance, decided to engage me in conversation. “I admire you. I don’t know how you do this job..” she began.
Lady, most of the time, me neither. But I try to imagine her life. Where does she work? In some cubicle like on The Office ? Sitting in a space like a veal, squinting at a computer screen, day in , day out…I picture myself strolling past her cubicle, leaning in unannounced and saying “Geez lady, your life must just Suck. How can you do this? I’d kill myself.” And then walking away. A drive-by insult assault. Still, I restrain myself.
“I’m getting paid to go have dinner in Paris.” I smile broadly, as The Company expects, and wonder if I have chicken stuck in my teeth. Don’t feel sorry for me sister. I graduated from college, I feel like shouting at her back as she smirks and retreats. I did dammit. So what if it was decades ago and I was a film major. This is a lifestyle choice. I just never imagined it would be…for life.
Second incident. I just commuted in by plane (as I do every week). I came in a day early because I had an early morning check in the next day. Got myself a sweet little deal on an area hotel on Priceline, and basically had a free night to drink some wine, grab a burger in the hotel lobby, maybe watch a movie before popping a bootleg ambien (I’ll explain that another time). I was in a jolly mood.
Being in uniform has it’s perks, like jumping ahead of most security lines and being able to carry any darn liquids I feel like carrying without resorting to plastic bags. I still have to unstrap my high heeled mary janes though, and take my computer out, and all those annoying things the passengers resent us for daily. But I digress..Being in uniform also puts the invisible sign on our backs-Ask Me For Directions-
I don’t mind. I’m a pretty friendly girl on the outside. If I see someone who looks lost at the airport I’ll even stop them and offer to help. Old Brand X knew what they were getting when they hired me, that’s for sure. So on this day, bopping along to the hotel shuttle zone, a young man strode up beside me and asked me how to get to baggage claim (right in front of you dude). He must have liked my smile because he kept walking with me and just had to tell me how sorry he felt for me having to do this job.
What? This was getting a little bit annoying. Two in a week. I’m flying to Beijing tomorrow and have plans to climb the Great Wall, I told him. For the Second Time. (the truth!). I went to a jazz concert in a park in Paris last week. I’m so Not somebody to pity, I want to add. Wow. He was amazed. “I’m glad to hear some of you still have fun at your job.” I strode off, heels clicking on the concrete, pleased to have educated someone.
Of course this is the most bi-polar career you can imagine. One minute it’s all fun and games, and the next, boom. I think it must be the most hideous career choice I could possibly have made. I’ll never ever be able to save money. I make less than all my non airline friends, and I won’t be able to retire until I’m in my 70’s. You get the idea.
The final straw this month though happened to a coworker. I started the flight at the front of the airplane, greeting the passengers. It’s not a bad place to be, getting a chance to eyeball everyone and a feel for the flight-especially since I was to be working in steerage (oops, main cabin). Oh relax, I volunteered. Anyway, an elderly woman stomped on board and shoved her ticket in my face. “Is this in the back?” she asked. It said something like row 300 seat z. Um, yes it is. She made a face and muttered something. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back there with you, ” I said, by way of reassurance. Not that she knew me from Adam but it was a kind of “We’re all in this together” comment. She didn’t give me a backwards glance. Her timid smiling husband scurried along behind her shlepping her bags.
We have them on every flight. The High Maintenance passenger. You see them come on board and you can pick them out. Right off the bat, they want something innocuous. Water maybe, as they are going to their seat. No biggie. Then they discover the call-button, and ring it at least once before take off. They can’t stow their bag. They don’t like their seat.
They make themselves known to us virtually the entire flight. They tend to stick to one flight attendant whom they feel they have bonded with. So this woman, on a flight to europe, has picked my coworker. She is not happy with her special meal choice and wants to trade it for a regular meal. She doesn’t like her seat. She wants to sit in the designated crew seat instead. She was a big pain in other words. Her probably hen-pecked husband sat on the other side of the airplane (my side) and he was good cop to her bad. I did not even know they were together until the flight was over.
So she got one bee in her bonnet after another, and finally my flying partner had enough of her. She maybe was less than cordial with her once. It was enough. The woman came to the back and it was On. She started complaining about everything that bothered her with the flight. She said, “You don’t know me. I am more educated than you”. My coworker said,” Well ma’am you don’t know me either,” to which the woman replied “Look where you are.”
LOOK WHERE YOU ARE. There it was, in a nutshell. Now I may only have an undergraduate degree, but I fly with men and women who have Masters degrees, law degrees…some are nurses, professors..Our job is a job that offers many of us the free time to have other careers. Raise families without putting our kids in full-time daycare. The fact that we nearly all have to supplement our income somehow is besides the point. It’s a choice we make and live with, through good times and bad. Sort of like a marriage.
Just because many of us are considering a trial separation doesn’t mean we’ll actually go through with it. And just because others disapprove of our choices..and yes, maybe we are too good for it and don’t deserve this abuse…we stay. It’s a twisted love story…(and I’m still here to tell it).
Ay chihuaha my right hand and foot are sore. I feel like I could be bisected and one half of me would be healthy and the other half should be discarded. Going to P.T. and getting electro-shock therapy (well that’s what it feels like). What it really feels like is that I’m a guinea pig for the insurance company to fight over. I know I need an MRI to diagnose what’s going on-if only to prove to my husband that I’m not the Girl Who Cried Injury to stay home. ..but obviously there is a protocol to these nebulous nothing Broken types of injuries. So, thanks to all the fakers and scammers of the system, for making me wait to be diagnosed with a slipped disk or nerve damage or something more hideous.
