From the Road

Every week MacTroll visits a plethora of places around the country. For example, next week he'll visit D.C., Miami and New York in three days. He flies over 100,000 miles a year primarily on American Airlines, which qualifies him for Executive Platinum Status.

What the hell is that you ask?

What it means is that although you and I might plunk down our cash for a coach seat with our (or others') shrieking children and overweight thighs that make it impossible to get the service tray to lay flat for our non-existent food -- MacTroll is privileged.

When he buys his tickets in coach they instantly work to try to upgrade him to first/business class for free. He rides up front with his fellow professional travelers enjoying free alcoholic drink service, complete meals that don't suck, cups of warmed mixed nuts, a closet to have someone else hang up his coat for him, clean blankets and extra-wide seats with two times the leg room of a coach seat.

He enjoys access to the fancy clubs at the airport where there are free snacks, free internet, loads of empty, large leather chairs to sit in and free soft drinks. The bathrooms in some Admiral Clubs have marble floors and doors that extend from the floor to ceiling keeping your gassy identity top secret, so no one can identify you as the smelly one by your shoes.

I don't fly a lot, but every six to eight months I get on a plane for a Loosey-only vacation. And each time I use MacTroll's frequent flier miles and each time I get upgraded to first class, where I am reminded how much I am NOT used to be waited on. I sit next to all baby boomers with Louis Vitton luggage and $90 haircuts. I drink water, instead of a mixed drink, and I scarf down my nuts fearful that one of the well made-up, excessively smiley crew that are appointed to the first-class cabin will identify me as a fraud by my old tennis shoes and discount fleece jacket and rip the little ceramic bowl out of my hands.

Today is one of those experiences. I'm flying next to a guy on his way to a conference in Phoenix. He's got a manilla folder on his tray. The tray the uber friendly flight attendent assumed she had to tell me how to use as I refused their fancy smelling dinners. "I'm having dinner with my friends when we land," I said politely.

No one cared, but as a Fat girl it killed me to pass on the glass of ice cream with the hot fudge sauce they handed out 20 minutes later.

Currently my co-passenger, who began our flight arguing with a co-worker in the seat behind him about whether 6B or 6E was the best seat on that particular model airplane due to the extra 1/2 inch leg room -- they apparently once measured, has had his Crackberry out the whole time reading ugly plain text. He tries to put it down, lasts 30 seconds, and then picks it back up again.

We've been in the air for 2 hours. During which I finished my second book of the year (It's a big accomplisment for me you readers! So stop snickering.), Laurie Novaro's "Guide to the Idiot-Girls' Adventure Club."

It was the only book I brought -- for obviously slow reading reasons. Hence my impromptu blog via my school notebook and then typed so diligently on my friend KAP's laptop.

Anyway, when forced with flying solo I get a lot of quiet time, which I use to eavesdrop.

My favorite were the Chicago businessmen enroute to Phoenix where they would be golfing, probably during the same conference as my seat buddy. You can tell the guys were from Chicago because they all had Mike Ditka attributes: Black jeans, white New Balance tennis shoes that are as wide as they are long, black socks, collared shirts underneath fleecy sweatshirts that have either colleges or sports teams on them. Their bellies hang six or more inches over their belts, that seemed to be pulled extra tight for some reason and over-emphasized the years of Budweiser drinking and shouting at the TV. Don't forget the hair either. The short spiky haircuts that match the same gray bushy moustaches.

As the gate agent called for first class to board first (they have to make sure the privileged have a chance to suck back a complete gin and tonic before take off), one of the Ditka replica says to the other, "I didn't get an upgrade, so I wonder how many employees are hogging those seats."

When he finished, I stood to get ready to board. I felt his eyes scan me as I walked to the line, handed my ticket to the gate agent and proceeded down the jetbridge.

As my people boarded 10 minutes later and moved to the cattle car in the back of the plane mooing, I sat with my eyes in my book. Head down. Dont' make eye contact! Refuse a drink! Do not draw attention to yourself! And I wonder how long it took MacTroll to get used to riding at the front of the bus with wings after flying coach on discount airlines when we ran our own business. I also wondered if he'd ever be able to go back to just flying coach.

I mean let's face it. He lives a life of $300 hotel rooms withnmaid service and free pints of Ben and Jerry ice cream when he's on the road.

At home, he gets a wife who runs around hurriedly trying to keep the household in clean underwear, wiping down walls she's glad they paid the extra money for to upgrade to eggshell coatings so that it makes removing dirty toddler finger prints off of them easier, running off to class and meet ups and leaving him with stuff to do or a kid to care for. In comparison to his travel life -- he definitely married a woman who is the epitome of coach.

One that is full of kids who kick your seat, spill their drinks and make you feel grumpy and cramped.

But maybe that's why he upgrades me to first class each time I actually take the time to make time away for myself. Maybe it's his way of saying thank you for grounding him in a reality where sleeping in a pile like puppies with your familiy is way cooler and happier than 1,000 count Egyption Cotton sheets.

Maybe, but I'm too busy losing at the sudoku in the inflight magazine to think about it too much. :-)