Lauren and I have always considered ourselves common folk. Our modest sensibilities were forged through our respective lower-upper-middle class upbringings.
Despite living in one of America's wealthiest towns for the past three years, I'd like to think we haven't changed. Lauren still prefers Old Navy to Ralph Lauren and regular K-Mart to that uppity Super-K, while I still siphon gas from unsuspecting neighbors to fuel my beat-up Subaru and neglect to shave or shower for weeks at a time. It's just the way we were raised.
And until recently, neither Lauren nor I, in all our worldly travels, had ever flown first class. I've had some opportunities to do so in the past, particularly with some of my business travels, but to be honest, I just never considered myself a first class kind of guy. My father spent the better part of my childhood instilling in me the belief that our country had an elaborate set of checks and balances established solely to keep guys like me OUT of first class, and I guess I took those lessons to heart.
But sometimes life throws a twist at you, and you've just got to roll with it.
Lauren and I were scheduled to fly out of Newark for our return trip to Aspen at 8 AM on New Year's Day. That is, until Lauren decided to start throwing up soon after what remains of Dick Clark introduced the eastern time zone to 2009. When 5 am rolled around, it was clear she wasn't up for flying, and in her pregnant state, it appeared stuffing her in my carry-on bag and stowing her safely in the overhead compartment was out of the question.
So I went to work on making alternate arrangements, only to learn that there were only two seats available that would get Lauren back to Aspen in time for school on Monday, and they were in... first class.
So we bit the bullet and bought the tickets, only to learn upon printing our boarding passes that at Continental, they don't call it first class, they call it "elite." That's right, elite, as in "best of the best," "superior to you," and "how dare you make eye contact with me."
As we arrived for check-in the next morning, I was fully prepared to voice my displeasure regarding Continental's passive-aggressive oppression of the working class when,wait...what's this? We don't have to wait in line? And what's that? No baggage fees, you say?
As we rid ourselves of our luggage and made our way to the lengthy security line, I found myself growing drunk on the power provided by my elevated status. Inside me a righteous anger raged as I took my place in line behind mere commoners, but I kept my indignation quiet, as I knew my loving, caring, sensitive spouse wouldn't be similarly effected by a brief flirtation with cultural supremacy.
And that's when I heard something I never thought possible; my kindergarten teacher of a wife looking down at her boarding pass, and loudly proclaiming to the man guarding the entrance to the security line, "We don't have to wait in this...WE'RE ELITE!!"
Now, I'm assuming if you're reading this you know Lauren, but if you don't, there really aren't two more unlikely words one can imagine coming out of her mouth. But that's the poison of privilege, I guess; it'll corrupt the best of us.
* May be an exaggeration
Despite living in one of America's wealthiest towns for the past three years, I'd like to think we haven't changed. Lauren still prefers Old Navy to Ralph Lauren and regular K-Mart to that uppity Super-K, while I still siphon gas from unsuspecting neighbors to fuel my beat-up Subaru and neglect to shave or shower for weeks at a time. It's just the way we were raised.
And until recently, neither Lauren nor I, in all our worldly travels, had ever flown first class. I've had some opportunities to do so in the past, particularly with some of my business travels, but to be honest, I just never considered myself a first class kind of guy. My father spent the better part of my childhood instilling in me the belief that our country had an elaborate set of checks and balances established solely to keep guys like me OUT of first class, and I guess I took those lessons to heart.
But sometimes life throws a twist at you, and you've just got to roll with it.
Lauren and I were scheduled to fly out of Newark for our return trip to Aspen at 8 AM on New Year's Day. That is, until Lauren decided to start throwing up soon after what remains of Dick Clark introduced the eastern time zone to 2009. When 5 am rolled around, it was clear she wasn't up for flying, and in her pregnant state, it appeared stuffing her in my carry-on bag and stowing her safely in the overhead compartment was out of the question.
So I went to work on making alternate arrangements, only to learn that there were only two seats available that would get Lauren back to Aspen in time for school on Monday, and they were in... first class.
So we bit the bullet and bought the tickets, only to learn upon printing our boarding passes that at Continental, they don't call it first class, they call it "elite." That's right, elite, as in "best of the best," "superior to you," and "how dare you make eye contact with me."
As we arrived for check-in the next morning, I was fully prepared to voice my displeasure regarding Continental's passive-aggressive oppression of the working class when,wait...what's this? We don't have to wait in line? And what's that? No baggage fees, you say?
As we rid ourselves of our luggage and made our way to the lengthy security line, I found myself growing drunk on the power provided by my elevated status. Inside me a righteous anger raged as I took my place in line behind mere commoners, but I kept my indignation quiet, as I knew my loving, caring, sensitive spouse wouldn't be similarly effected by a brief flirtation with cultural supremacy.
And that's when I heard something I never thought possible; my kindergarten teacher of a wife looking down at her boarding pass, and loudly proclaiming to the man guarding the entrance to the security line, "We don't have to wait in this...WE'RE ELITE!!"
Now, I'm assuming if you're reading this you know Lauren, but if you don't, there really aren't two more unlikely words one can imagine coming out of her mouth. But that's the poison of privilege, I guess; it'll corrupt the best of us.
Once on the plane, the four hour flight quickly passed in a blur of fruit salads and spacious seating and complimentary headphones and fresh baked chocolate chip cookies and hearty shoulder rubs*.
Back in Aspen, Lauren and I slowly normalized to our usual feeling of inferiority, aided greatly by the abundance of private jets, fur coats and plastic surgery that tend to permeate our fair town come January. But deep inside, we'll always cherish those precious few hours when we were "elite."
* May be an exaggeration
