Voting for Airplane Idol.

Living that lush life that I live (lies), I fly quite a bit for work. On my last flight I realized that there are so many unspoken rules of an airplane. Honestly, I feel badly for anyone that doesn’t pick up on social cues easily, because the rules of the sky are subtle and the stakes are high. God knows that even the nicest people still complain about something during a flight. I’m far from the nicest person ya’ll might know, so you better believe I have some things to say.

Thus, the story begins here. I walk onto the plane and I am two rows from my seat, when a tall fellow in a pin-stripped suit stands up in the aisle. He wants to remove his jacket. That’s fine. I’m not a monster. I give him the appropriate amount of space and that half smirk that says, “I totally support you.” This guy’s look could go mob-boss or could go Wall Street, either way, it was weird when he decided to stare me straight in the eyes and remove his jacket…slowly.

So, I do what any human with a soul might do in this situation. I take my phone out to break the tension. However, he’s still staring. I do a casual look-around, because I’m a Beta, and notice there is only one woman behind me. The plane is mostly seated, because…well…I’m in the poor people boarding section. Delta now calls this, “Basic” boarding. That’s kind of you Delta, but let’s call a spade a spade.

Firstly, everyone that takes WAY too long and pisses off us assholes, the elderly, the injured, and the young Mothers (Amurica, amirite?). Next, the military, those that don’t get the respect they truly deserve so we throw them this bone. Then, the rich folk. The folk that aren’t rich, but they’ve been screwed a few times that day, so they’re Annie living in Daddy Warbuck’s house. And at last, the poor people. The poor people can board the plane…BUT IN GROUPS. This isn’t a soup kitchen, peasants. Come in a few at a time…there you go…ok, ONLY ONE BAG GREEDY, okay… great.

Anyways, I digress. So, the other peasant girl and myself are waiting for the mob-boss to take off his jacket. I’m giving him that right amount of space. The, “I respect you” kind of space, and he’s just really milking it. People around me try to connect with me, giving me those wide eyes like, “…this guy, come on”, but I don’t budge. I’m patient and better than everyone else. Also, and more importantly, I’m afraid of conflict and the mob-boss is still staring me straight in the eyes. No big deal, I start to look around. What’s out the window? Ohh, the runway. How surprising. His right arm slips out of the jacket, he hits us with the slow-fold, still staring at me, of course. Am I doing something wrong here? I look behind me to see if maybe he’s watching something to my left. He isn’t. It’s me.

Finally, ALAS, our tension is broken. He places his jacket in the overhead bin. Long awaited freedom, you’re in my grasp. 11C, the sweet smells of the bathroom will soon waft carefully to my delicate nostrils. I walk a row and sit down. Please keep in mind, the peasant girl behind me is most literally kicking my heels as I get into my seat. She was perfectly patient before and now, 12B is some secret jackpot.

I did it. I’m a champion. I sit in my airplane seat and immediately there’s a woman beside me that greets me excitedly. “Hi!”…No, no, no, no. I’ve fallen for these traps before. Not today, Satan. I’m not getting lured into small talk for the next hour when I just ate A LOT of cheese and I have no gum. I’m not going to casually cover my mouth as I retort back to your not funny comments. Absolutely not. Power move, I put my headphones in. I’m a genius. I’d love to chat, but I HAVE to listen to the only downloaded playlist on my iPhone. Uh oh, trouble. It’s Now 50. I’m starting to rock hoping I’ll tip the plane over and end the misery.

Anywho, we are about to take off and I don’t have the little tray table down or anything. I just have my computer on my lap to do some light reading (I don’t have an iPad, get over it). The flight attendant has walked by me like 4 times and sits down. He’s fine with me. Suddenly, AMBUSHED. The woman in 11D, next to me, taps me on the shoulder and requests that I stow my laptop for take off. Betrayal.

Sure, my first instinct is that she’s probably a flight attendant, but the thing is…she’s in sweatpants. Now, I’m torn. You can be a flight attendant, but if you’re in sweatpants, you’re not anything. You're a blob in a somewhat human form. You’re an all gray marshmallow. You’re not a firefighter, in sweatpants. I can’t walk into a high school in sweatpants and be a principal. I’m not a cop, in sweatpants. You’re just Ted, or Mike, or in my case, Lisa. If I want to endanger lives around me, you just can’t stop me unless you’re in uniform. If a cop tried to pull me over in his Accord wearing sweatpants, I’d call my boyfriend crying, because some strange man is following me. This broad is no different! Unfortunately though, I did stow my laptop.

God dammit, I’m ashamed of myself. I bet the mob-boss wouldn’t stow his laptop, because the mob-boss is an Alpha (or a serial killer, TBD). I always thought of myself as someone who could really man the emergency seats if something happened, but watching myself stow my laptop…man…

Then again, when I looked on my plane and saw who was managing our emergency exit row. Eek. I would’ve for sure been a goner. I don’t really understand why flight attendants go over to the exit row and individually ask them if they are able to assist in the case of an emergency. That slob in 6A is mumbling that he’ll help, there’s a Grandma that is VERY eager in 6B, some stoner in 6C, and a girl applying make-up in 6D. I mean…shouldn’t the flight attendant be asking if WE agree for these chosen few to be our Avengers? These people randomly get placed by Delta and now they are the Captain of this sinking ship? No, no, no.

I think we, as a people, need to mutanize. I know that’s not a word, but that’s what we need to do! We need to come together to say…I don’t want little Honey Boo Boo to be the first on the wing.

The flight attendant should pass out ballots when we first are seated. We can scan out our peers like true savages. We cast our votes. Who will lead us to safety? I’ll tell you right now, my first vote will be the jacked guy up front in the spandex shirt. He could be some bad ass marine or he could be a cross-fit instructor on steroids, either way, I nominate him to replace Grandma.

Okay, that Dad kind of reminds me of my Dad. That’ll be comforting. He’s got a local high school baseball cap on, a Hawaiian t-shirt tucked in, blue jeans, and white sneaks. That’ll feel like home. I’ll go to him first in case of an emergency. Next, that woman talking loudly on her cell phone. You can tell she doesn’t care what you or her licensed therapist says. She’s good for a wild card…maybe we’ll need someone to gnaw through metal…

Do I nominate myself? That way I can get first chance out of the death box? Nah, I’m a Beta.

I look at the Mafia guy again. He’s still looking at me. JESUS, he’s in love with me. I’m sure of it. Mark him down…he can be my Hero.

Everyone casts their votes, then we go down the aisles American Idol style. Lisa, seat 11C, you will NOT be an Airplane Idol today. You are not worthy. The Dad in 8B, you are the first hero. Then, Thor’s hammer rips through the aisle to his hand…

Please consider this my application for Delta. I have a lot to offer.