All that’s left to do is drag on my pressure socks and pack my laptop. I’m going early to the airport to a) avoid running into the cleaning lady who is very Garbo “I vant to vork alone”, and I’m totally ok with that because this isn’t a plantation and I don’t need to oversee and b) because my gal on the inside says my flight is overbooked and I have a prime chance of getting upgraded to business.
So I’m dressed nicely, am carrying no plastic bags and look very ‘business class” worthy. It worked once before – I was bumped to first – but the best part of that trip was the fact that the escalators and elevators were all out of service and I was faced with having to drag a 100 pound suitcase up a long flight of stairs. As I struggled in my cute calfskin boots this God of a Man came out of nowhere and lifted my luggage like a feather and took it up to check in for me. He was gorgeous, flawless, most likely an angel. I was completely twitterpated and couldn’t talk.
So the moral is dress nicely, not in pajamas, and you may get first class or at least first class treatment by strange hunky men.
(Oliver, if you’re reading this, I thought of you the whole time. You’re the one for me baby.)
San Francisco, here I come!