Now, the times when I can upgrade, it’s different. It isn’t so much that I adopt a snooty demeanor, but rather that it makes me want to have some way of announcing, “Hey! I’m not one of those people who can afford $1,000 for a plane ticket! I just upgraded for $135 because I had a rough trip! I’m just like you, only willing to overdraw my bank account until I get paid on Thursday so I can be pampered for 2 hours and 47 minutes in the sky!” But, of course, announcing that would probably mean being carted off by men in white suits and flying home via neither first-class nor coach but, instead, being retained for a mental health observation and possibly making the Albuquerque news as a crazy person. After all, the fact that the lead story on the news last night was the *wind* (Tumbleweeds are actually blowing across the roads! Mullets everywhere are in danger of frizzing out of control!) makes me think that a tattooed pierced lady pontificating loudly and gesticulating wildly about her presumed vs. actual class status would be breaking news.
There is, I think, a class lesson to be learned from flying first class. I certainly have almost 30 years of experience being a plane passenger, but I was 32 years old before I ever flew first-class. Until then, I was one of those people looking longingly at the big comfy seats and the people who looked so, well, comfortable sitting in them as I squeezed past to sit in coach, which always felt more like being cattle on our way to a slaughter than anything resembling a peaceful journey.