Dear Flight Attendant on flight 2026 from Phoenix to Philadelphia last Friday, February 27th, at 11:50 PM:
If you have to open a sentence with, “I’m not a bitch, but…” guess what? You’re a bitch. Also, you’re a flight attendant and you’re working and you probably shouldn’t be using that kind of language. This isn’t Virgin Airlines (That’s something I assume happens over there: they’re all tattooed and gorgeous and foul-mouthed and everyone loves it. I’m probably wrong. But a girl can dream).
Context goes a long way, lady. You don’t know my story; I don’t know yours. I do know, however, that we are both human beings and should probably not be unnecessarily awful to each other. Or awful at all, period.
Let’s examine what happened, shall we? The flight was supposed to depart at 11:50 PM. It was delayed an hour. I had spent the past few weeks, and that Friday, trying to help someone I believe desperately needs help. I was taking the red eye because I was missing a weekend of my yoga training to help this person. I was fucking exhausted because, you know, doing that whole courtroom thing is terrifying in any circumstances, and then multiply that times a million when you have an anxiety disorder.
(Let me clarify: it was stressful to the point that, immediately afterwards, I had to eat a cookie dough blizzard with extra cookie dough. Basically I was eating a giant ball of cookie dough in a light coating of soft-serve)
So when the plane was delayed an hour and the lady at the gate kept saying that it was a full flight and we needed to put our bags in the overhead compartment as soon as we found space because there probably wouldn’t be any space, I jumped on it. My bag holds my yoga mat. It is not a big bag.
I got on the plane, bleary-eyed and full of chocolate, and noticed that all the First Class passengers were seated and that, hey, look, there was overhead bin space above one of them. I asked the men in that row very kindly if I could place my bag up there. They said, “Yes, of course. Go ahead.” So I did, and then I ambled back to 21E to spend four hours trying to sleep in a center seat. So I didn’t sleep, is what I’m saying.
When we deplaned, I got to the First Class Cabin and couldn’t find my bag. I stepped into the row and asked, “Where’s my bag?”
And you, you outstanding professional, said, “What if I told you I checked it to Portland, Oregon?”
Cue panic attack. “Excuse me?”
“What if I told you I had it checked to Portland? I’m not a bitch, but…” and then she proceeded to YELL AT ME IN FRONT OF THE PLANE about how I broke all the rules and she wasn’t a bitch, she was just tired, and that I clearly knew better and that she had to GATE VALET* (the horror!) not one, but THREE bags because of my indecency. She handed me my bag, I walked past her, and I burst into tears.
*Gate valet means that technically the bags were checked but some dude brings them right up next to the plane so that when you get off the plane, HEY, your bag is there and you didn’t have to do any heavy lifting at all.
So, like, three bags? My bag doesn’t take up space of ONE. I jammed it between TWO other bags. You don’t know my story. I don’t know yours. But treat me like I’m a person instead of your personal punching bag.
PS–I’m not a bitch, but you stink.