Ever wonder what it is like when you fly economy but your travel companion gets upgraded to first class?  Well let me tell you – it ain’t pretty.

Let me set the scene:

My husband of almost 30 years, Norm, is at the gate in the line to board with me on a cross-country flight from California to Maryland. We are looking forward to visiting our 24-year-old son, who has started his post college life on the east coast, as well as other close family that live in the same land of lush landscapes, countless waterways, historical towns, Old Bay seasoning and scrumptious blue crabs.

Norm and I are holding our phones with our boarding passes. We are both flying economy and are happy to be in Group 1. This is possible because Norm is a frequent flyer due to work and gets this benefit when he travels with this airline.

I look at our fellow passengers – they are countless. We are like lemmings lined up to blindly follow each other through a door that has just been opened with the promise to take us away to sights unseen. It is a completely full flight, but at least Norm and I will have each other for company.

Both of us stand there excited but sleepy and maybe a bit on edge, having not slept well due to two things: overall excitement about our fun trip and the nagging anxiety that our prescheduled Uber driver will decide at the last minute to cancel on us as we have chosen an ungodly hour in the early morning to get picked up.

It is important that I add this bit of info because it relates directly to my upcoming misery on this trip.  I had promised to make hearty sandwiches that morning as we knew whatever may be offered on the plane would not be appealing or enough sustenance for a 5+hour flight.  And while I did manage to throw some almonds and goldfish into a baggy, I did not have time to make the sandwiches.  Why? To our surprise the Uber driver not only showed up, but he arrived 20 minutes early. The scramble of all scrambles was on!

Of course, why I didn’t just text him “be out in 20 minutes”, I don’t know.  It’s like that Progressive Insurance commercial, Norm and I have become the folks whose brains think in an old fogie way…Instead of giving ourselves the final 20 minutes to calmly finish our coffee, make a to-go lunch, brush our teeth and then head out the door–we were like frenzied and crazed geese, honking commands at each other:

“Don’t forget to unplug the coffee pot! Don’t want our house to burn down.”

“Did you throw out the trash? Don’t want to stink up the place.”

“Gosh darn it! Where did you hide my reading glasses?”

But now we could put that hectic morning behind us as it was finally time to board the plane.

“Bing!” goes Norm’s phone. He looks down at his notification. He reads it then looks up and gives me a nervous smile.

“I just got upgraded to first class. I guess a seat freed up just now.”

I am truly happy for him. He travels so much and has been working long hours. Norm deserves not to have to sit squished in the back with the masses.

“You can take my seat.” He tells me. But I quickly respond. “No, no, it is for you. I don’t think they would allow it anyway…me being a mortal traveler and you the Global Services deity.”  

He responds quickly, almost too quickly. “O.K. I will be working on my laptop the whole time anyway.” And he’s off. No look back — no sweet smile of slight embarrassment that he has left me—left me with the wolves of economy seating, teeth bared and ready to pounce once their boarding group is called. I am left standing there, like the sad person who just gave up the chance to take a seat on the last spaceship off the earth while the alien creatures close in.  

As I wait my turn to board, I find myself bristling about the situation. I am thinking now that he should have known I really didn’t mean to say no to his offer to switch. Of course, I would rather sit in roomy first class. Duh!  Didn’t I just get a knee replacement? (well ok, that was almost a year ago – but still.) And for a husband of 30 years, you would think he should know what I am really thinking…Geeze, he didn’t even try to convince me to switch with him. His wasn’t a gallant offer after all, it was a meager suggestion. Harrumph.

As I walk down the aisle at the front of the plane past him I see he is already settled into his seat, which is a huge leather chair built for a linebacker’s comfort. I demonstratively point my nose in the other direction (like a disgruntled dog that gets offered a rub behind the ears instead of the doggie treat he truly desires).  Norm is laughing at my acting out. I hear him lament to the woman sitting next to him about his situation. “What am I supposed to do?” as he reaches for a tray of bubbling champagne.

After what seems like an eternity of stop and go foot traffic, I get to my seat in economy. It’s not horrible. I have the aisle and what appear to be normal people sitting next to and around me. Although there is one obviously cranky toddler two rows back that looks as unhappy as I feel and could go off at any minute.

I am relieved to get overhead space for my carry-on and my backpack fits nicely under my seat. But then to my dismay, it dawns on me right then that my backpack isn’t bloated like a pufferfish because I didn’t make sandwiches. And the snacks that I did pack are in Norm’s backpack which currently reside with him in first class. Come on!

I can see the back of Norm’s head as the curtain to divide the commoners from the V.I.P.s is still open. I contemplate my options. After rummaging through my backpack, I determine I have nothing to eat but a partially wrapped, lint covered stick of gum and one cough drop housed in a wrapper so old I can’t even tell what flavor it is. I want those snacks in Norm’s backpack.

But I can’t get back to him to get the snacks.  Passengers just keep coming and coming down the aisle and it would be an impossible feat of will and daring to get to him. Unlike the staunch salmon that swim upstream against all odds, I decide to text him about the snacks instead.

“Hey you have the almonds and goldfish. Can you bring them back to me when you get a chance?”

Norm’s head doesn’t move and there is no indication he has read my text. Darn it. I wait a bit more but no response. Oh well, time to see what movies are playing. Each seat has a small screen on the back, for which I am extremely grateful as I have just come to realize now that my iPad is so ancient (10 plus years old) it won’t allow for streaming the free movies or tv provided on the flight.   

Here we go again… Norm should have known when he asks me each Christmas if I want a new iPad and I say “No, mine still works fine for what I need.” that really, deep down, I do in fact want him to spend the money for a brand-new one and that I am just trying to be noble for some stupid reason.

Anyway, all is well, I tell myself. Just need a good rom-com to watch. I try using the built in screen on the back of the seat in front of me. Darn it– why is everyone else’s tv screen showing a movie? Oh my– is that Sam Heughan with his shirt off? I push every button possible to get my system working. But it’s no use.  My screen is like watching something through a Pablo Picasso lens.  Can’t quite make out heads or tails of the picture. It could be sexy Sam or Jabba the Hutt. Well, that’s just great. No movies for me…

“Hello?” I text Norm again.

Crickets.

I see the mesh blue curtain dividing the cabins has been drawn closed and tied shut with a Velcro strap. Why the see-through material? I guess they want folks in the back to see why you pay the big bucks for the front. And I spot Norm and his companions appear to be eating breakfast while the rest of us are not. 

Boo Hoo. I am feeling less than.

The beefy guy sitting in the middle seat next to me murmurs to no one in particular he has taken stuff to make him sleep. He places large noise cancellation headphones over his ears that make him look like Princess Leia in drag and says “See ya when we land in Baltimore.” And he is softly snoring in no time.

O.K. then… I decide to try to see if I can get a movie going on my phone and it works. Although I must say the screen size is so small that I need my readers to watch. But at least I have something to take my mind off the fact that I am now truly hungry.  After all, we started our day hours ago.

My smile turns to a frown a minute later. I am presented, by a cheerful flight attendant, with two choices for a free snack. A teeny tiny bag of pretzels or a teeny tiny bag with a teeny tiny cookie.  I ask if I can purchase one of those snack boxes with dried fruit, hummus, cheese spread and a couple of sad crackers, but am told as I don’t have a credit card saved on file in my airline app, the answer is no.

So, I grab the pretzels and have to stop myself from just chowing down the whole thing in one bite. No, I need to be smart.  I still have about 4 hours on the flight. Given the fact that there could be upcoming winds or bad weather that work against us I need to ration my food wisely. I have gone into survivor mode now that my husband has abandoned me and I can’t walk up to him in the forbidden zone as the seat belt sign has not been turned off. (I am a rule follower.)

I pour the contents of my pretzel bag onto the small cocktail napkin they provided with my drink. Like a competitor on the survival show, Alone, I look over my sustenance for the duration of the trip. I have six of the smallest pretzels I have ever seen. I feel like I am the giant human in the book Gulliver’s Travels as I can barely hold the Lilliputian sized pretzel between my finger tips without crushing it. Well, I can have one and 1/2 pretzels an hour… I gnaw on the first one savoring every cardboard bite.

Norm appears out of nowhere. He has something tucked inside a big, soft cloth napkin that he places on my tray table and my eyes grow large as I see what he has brought me.  It is a decadent, pudgy butter croissant with a good-sized container of French yogurt made with real peaches.  “Oh, you are the best!” I squeal. The aroma of the heavenly croissant fills the economy cabin and I start to get some not so friendly side-eye glances from folks around me. Norm takes off back to the safety of the very front of the plane and shuts the curtain.

Feeling guilty and honestly bad for the “eating-only-tiny-snacks people”, I manage to ignore the stares of the less fortunate souls in my cabin and focus on my unexpected treats. Life is good, I like my husband again and I quickly gobble up the croissant. I open the yogurt and my first spoonful is divine. Those French cows deserve a Michelin star of their own. The peaches are so sweet-smelling and tasty.

And then I sense it rather than see it. There is a stirring by my side. I look over and see next to me the dozing man’s nostrils flare, taking in the aroma of good food that lays on my tray table next to him. Like a hibernating bear that awakens from a deep sleep he opens his eyes and looks around for the source of the fragrant cuisine. He spies my croissant crumbs and heavenly full-fat yogurt. I freeze.

“Hey. Where did you get that?” he asks accusingly.

“Um, my husband gave it to me.”

“No fair.” he scoffs.

“Yup.” I agree and quickly gulp down the last spoonful of my “ooh-la-la” exceptionally delish breakfast.

He gives me a “you suck” kind of look, but thankfully settles in for a new nap.

The time goes by. Slowly. My wireless ear buds that work with my phone are cheap and lose power half-way through my rom-com. I have nothing to do and the satisfying feeling of the breakfast has become a distant memory.

I text Norm and ask what he is doing.  I get a response.  “Just working.”

The toddler behind me has taken all that she can up to this point half way through our journey and is letting loose for all the land to hear that she is not going to stop crying because she is miserable. Period.

Norm adds “Hey keep the noise down back there. I can’t hear my lunch options.”

I am starting to not like him again.

I know I should stay put. The man is busy and the seat belt sign is on and I am not allowed to breach the cabin.  There are rules.  But the devil on my shoulder is telling me I have every right to get up and visit Norm in first class. Of course, I have not forgotten the snacks sitting uneaten in his backpack. Nothing could be better than a handful or two of smoked almonds right now and a fizzy, cold ginger ale.

And like a scene out of Bridesmaids I go for it. I walk up to the mesh curtain and pull that Velcro tab open and cross the threshold. Norm is in fact working on his laptop and as I am undetected by any flight attendant, I approach him from behind.

“I am ready to parrrtyyy!” I joke, pretending to be an intoxicated Kristen Wigg from Bridesmaids.

All eyes from the first classers are on me and all of a sudden I feel silly.  “Oh, I just came up here for your nuts.”

Norm flashes a grin. Oh brother. Did I really say that?

My hubby sets his laptop aside and gets up to open the overhead bin which I swear is cradling his backpack in a soft, soothing spotlight with no other bags touching it. He unzips it and pulls out the nuts and goldfish baggy and hands it over to me.

“Thanks” I say, noting his beckoning gin and tonic with a bright lime slice on his side table. I want to grab it and run (after all– what could be better with the salted nuts?) but my manners take over and I take the loss with dignity but not before quickly swiping the glass up and taking a few good gulps.

“Taxes!” I say cheerfully. Norm shakes his head to my lame joke and I see the flight attendant heading my way so I bolt.

Happy that I have my snacks, that the toddler is no longer crying and that I am only an hour from seeing my son, I settle in and read the oh-so-riveting articles and physician ads in the airline magazine. (Boy, do they need a humorist’s column like good ole Erma Bombeck). Anyhow…

We land and I am so ready to get off the plane after the long flight. I sigh as I realize that I may as well sit down because folks are moving at a glacier pace. There are so many bags jammed together in the overhead bins, they are difficult to get down. It reminds me of the Jenga game when the pieces are wedged in and you pull one and it sticks then you force it and it all comes tumbling down.

Overall, the trip wasn’t too bad. I think our marriage will survive. Norm was pretty good at not rubbing it in about his first-class service. And he did smuggle some food my way.

“Bing!” goes the text notification. It is Norm on our group text to our son who is waiting outside of baggage claim to pick us up. Norm texts, “We have landed. Some of us will deplane sooner than the others. ”

I look way, way down the aisle and catch a glimpse of him winking and waving at me as he exits the plane.

Good thing we both have a high tolerance for each other’s shenanigans. I just shake my head, pop the old cough drop in my mouth and think about the possibility of having the same thing happen on the return flight.

No way it happens again.

Right??