I sit in my aisle seat and attentively watch the stewardesses kneel down and scutter around, going about their duties.
I read an article over winter break about the frequent and scandalous sexual affairs flight attendants have amongst themselves (how social statuses are earned and established by number of one-night-stands in Hiltons/Best Westerns with the burly-if not chubby- singular male flight attendant, co-pilot if you’re lucky, and pilot if you are the best-paid, young, and firm-assed newbie. The younger and hotter you are, the better everything is for you). The essay was indeed memorable.
After reading that essay I inevitably interpret the stewardesses’ giggles, eye contact, and shoulder brushes with their co-workers as competition, futile attempts at seduction, and clues towards the intensity of their flirtationships.
Stewardess with tight ponytail and dirty-dog-brown highlights, clumpy mascara, and stunning blue eyes announces over the intercom that We’re In Good Hands With Pilot Jay McAlister On This Transcontinental Flight To London. I see her white teeth and gums gleaming and she even twirls a tagliatteni of her ironed-flat hair. While she goes on to recite her name and those of her companions, I imagine her knocking on Pilot Jay McAlister’s hotel door at the Radisson near Heathrow Terminal 5 thirteen hours later and coyly stepping into his suite, pouncing on the bed, running her fingers through his red hair (because his surname is McAlister, he is a ginger), and proceeding to the etc. etc.
She, being an American, probably will bask in the glory of being able to recount to her friends back in Arizona State that she slept with a really cute Irish pilot with a really cute accent (!).
After said stewardess hung up the curly-wired-phone-intercom, she and Highly Praised Asian Stewardess (who gives an intended global and liberal flair to the airline) walk down the aisle to assure that our-seatbelts-are-fastened-and-our-tray-tables-and-seats-are-in-their-locked-and-upright-positions. Their perky smiles and wide eyes remind me of those small dogs that always look like they’re smiling helplessly just because of the shape of their nose and jaw line and a sliver of tongue that hangs out; one cannot help but think that a smiling flat-nosed bulldog is as dumb as a slab of wood for smiling like that all the time (even when he/she is sleeping).
The stewardess kindly suggests I put my seat back up to its original 80 degree angle. I do it. She smiles, I smile back and watch her secure the overhead compartments and swing her hips to and fro.
finally got some sun yesterday. chillin with my 12 year old cuz, marta, a bright and tall girl.